Even then, when he appeared before the judges for the last time at the end of May, and was given clearance, I do not believe my brother understood the magnitude of what he had done.
“It’s really a matter of knowing the right people,” he confided to me when we were packing up to return home to le Chesne-Bidault. “I have been unlucky to date, but it will be very different in the future. You wait and see. I won’t attempt to direct a foundry, the responsibility is too wearing. But as first engraver at a high salary—and they’ll have to pay me well, or I won’t accept the position—there is no telling where I might not end up, perhaps at le Petit Trianon itself! I am sorry my father has been so put out about it all, but then, as I have so often said, his outlook is provincial.”
He smiled at me, as confident, as gay, and as self-possessed as he had always been. Thirty years old and a brilliant craftsman, he had no more sense of responsibility than a child of ten.
“You must know,” I said to him with all the weight of my sixteen years, and with the sight of his poor dead baby fresh in my memory, “that you have nearly broken Cathie’s heart, and my father’s too.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “Cathie is already looking forward to living at St. Cloud, and another baby will console her. She will have a son next time. As to my father, once he is back at le Chesne-Bidault and away from Paris, which he has always detested, he will soon be himself again.”
My brother was mistaken. The very next day, when we were due to take the diligence and travel home, my father was seized with another hemorrhage. My mother got him to bed at once and sent for the surgeon. There was little he could do. Too weak to travel home, yet conscious enough to know that he was dying, my father lingered on in that hotel bedroom of the Cheval Rouge for another seven days. My mother never left his side, or when she did it was only to snatch some sleep in my adjoining room, while I took her place. Those faded red hangings to the bed, the cracks on the plastered walls, the chipped ewer and basin in the corner of the room, these things became planted in my memory as I watched my father’s progress towards death.
A stifling heat had descended upon Paris too, adding to his suffering, but the window giving onto the noisy, narrow rue St. Denis below did not open more than a few inches only, bringing a turmoil of sound and a fetid air that only turned the room more sour.
How he longed for home—not only the dear familiarity of his surroundings at le Chesne-Bidault, but for his own terrain, the forests and the fields where he had been born and bred. Robert might call his attitude provincial, but our father, and our mother with him, had their roots deep in the soil; and from this same soil which had nurtured them both, the lush Touraine, the very core of France, he had built up his glass-houses, creating with his hands and with his life’s breath symbols of beauty that would outlast his time. Now his life was ebbing from him, vanishing like the air in a blowpipe laid aside, and the last night we were together, while my mother was sleeping, he looked at me and said, “Take care of your brothers. Keep the family one.”
He died on the 8th of June, 1780, aged fifty-nine, and was buried close by in the church of St. Leu in the rue St. Denis.
We were too worn out with weeping to notice it at the time, but later it was a source of pride to all of us that every merchant, trader, and workman in the glass trade with whom he had ever done business came to St. Leu that day as a mark of respect to his memory.
5
My father’s personal estate amounted to some 167,000 livres gross, and it took my mother and Monsieur Beaussier, the notary of Montmirail, until the end of July to sort out his papers, complete the inventory and the list of debts and assets, and finalize the net figure of 145,804 livres. Half of this sum was my mother’s, and the other half was divided equally among us, the five children. Robert and Pierre, having attained their majority, received their portion at once, while Michel, Edmé, and I, as minors living at home, had our one-fifth in trust, our mother acting as trustee. The lease of le Chesne-Bidault, held jointly by our parents, would continue now in my mother’s name alone, and she decided to manage the foundry herself as “maîtresse verrière,” a title held by no other woman in the trade. She decided to keep for her eventual retirement the small properties in St. Christophe which she had inherited from her father, Pierre Labbé; meanwhile she would reign over the community at le Chesne-Bidault.
I well remember how we all assembled, in the August of 1780, in the master’s room at home, and discussed the future. My mother sat at the head of the table, the widow’s cap topping her gray-gold hair somehow adding to her dignity; and the mock title, la Reyne d’Hongrie, seemed better suited to her now at fifty-five than ever before.
Robert stood at her right hand, or paced the room, continually restless, forever touching some ornament which he thought must be his by right of inheritance, while to the left sat Pierre, deep in his own dreams, which I felt sure had little to do with laws or legacies.
Michel, at the end of the table, had grown the most like our father in appearance. Small, dark, thickset, he was now twenty-four years old, and a master glass-maker at Aubigny in le Berry. We had not seen him for many months, and I do not know whether it was absence from home that had matured him, or the sudden realization of my father’s death, but he seemed to have lost his old reserve, and was the first of us to volunteer an opinion upon the future.
“S-s-speaking for myself,” he began, with far less hesitation than usual, “I have no more to l-learn at Aubigny. I am now w-willing to work here, if my mother will have me.”
I watched him with some curiosity. Here was indeed a new Michel, who, instead of sitting with a sullen expression on his face and eyes firmly fixed upon the floor, looked straight at my mother as though to challenge her.
“Very well, my son,” she replied, “if you feel that way I am equally willing to employ you. Remember that I am mistress of le Chesne-Bidault, and while I remain so I expect my orders to be obeyed and carried out.”
“That s-s-suits me,” he answered, “providing the orders are s-sensible.”
He would never have spoken thus a year ago, and although I was surprised at his daring I was secretly filled with admiration. Robert ceased his incessant prowling to throw a glance in Michel’s direction, and nodded approvingly.
“I have never given an order yet,” my mother remarked, “which was not of immediate benefit to the glass-house under my control. The only error in judgment was to advise your father to give la Brûlonnerie to Robert as his marriage portion.”
Michel was silenced. The sale of la Brûlonnerie to meet Robert’s debts had been a blow to the interests of all of us.
“I see no necessity,” said Robert, when the silence had become too long for comfort, “to revive the old business of my marriage portion. It’s over and done with. And my debts are paid. As you all know, and my mother as well, my immediate future has great promise. I become first engraver in crystal at this new establishment in St. Cloud within a few months. Should I wish to have a small financial interest in the place it will now be possible.”
Here was a dig at my mother. As a beneficiary under my father’s will he was now independent of her and could use his money as he pleased. The will had been drawn up long before my father’s illness, and before Robert had started his career of extravagance. My mother wisely ignored his remark and turned to Pierre.
“Well, dreamer?” she said. “We have all known since you came home ten years ago from Martinique that you followed your father’s trade through want of ability at anything else. As it has turned out, you have done very well. But don’t imagine I shall force you to remain a master glass-maker now that you have your share of the inheritance. You can go and live à la Jean-Jacques if you care to—become a hermit in the forest and exist on hazelnuts and goat’s milk.”
Pierre awoke from his dream, yawned, stretched, and gave her a long, slow smile.
“You are perfectly right,” he said. “I have no desire to stay in the glass trade. I thought
seriously some months back of going out to North America and fighting for the colonies in their War of Independence against England. It’s a tremendous cause. But I have decided to remain in France. I can do more good among my own people.”
We all stared. This was indeed a statement from dear, lazy Pierre, the “eccentric,” as my father used to call him.
“So?” My mother nodded encouragement. “What’s in your mind?”
Pierre leaned forward in his chair with a determined air.
“I shall buy a notary’s practice in Le Mans,” he said, “and offer my services to any client who cannot afford lawyer’s fees. There are hundreds of poor fellows who cannot read or write and need legal advice, and I shall make it my business to help them.”
Pierre a notary! Had he said a lion-tamer I should have been less astonished.
“Very philanthropic,” replied my mother, “but I warn you, you won’t make a fortune out of it.”
“I have no desire to make a fortune,” returned Pierre. “Whoever enriches himself does so at the expense of some poor beggar or other. Let those who wish to be wealthy reconcile themselves to their conscience first.”
I noticed that he did not look at Robert as he spoke, and I wondered suddenly whether his brother’s disasters, first at Rougemont and then at Villeneuve-St.-Georges, had affected Pierre more than the rest of us had realized, so that now, in this strange fashion of his own, he had decided to make amends for it.
It was Michel, despite his stammer, who found his tongue first.
“My c-congratulations, Pierre,” he said. “As I am never likely to m-make a fortune either, I shall p-probably be among your early clients. In any event, if no one wants your advice, you can always d-d-draw up marriage contracts for Sophie and Aimée.”
He could never manage the Ed in Edmé, and Aimée she had become through long habit. My young sister, indulged by all of us, and my father in particular, had remained remarkably quiet throughout these proceedings, but now she spoke up in her own defense.
“Pierre can draw up my marriage contract if he likes,” she announced, “but I make the stipulation that I may choose my own husband. He will be fifty years old and as rich as Croesus.”
This, said with the determined authority of fourteen years, helped to relax the tension—I asked her afterwards, and she told me that she did it on purpose, for we were all becoming too serious—and so it was that the future of my three brothers was discussed and arranged without ill feeling among any of us.
One final point remained to be settled. Robert walked over to the glass cabinet standing in one corner of the room, opened the doors, and took out the precious goblet that had been made at la Pierre on the famous occasion of the late King’s visit.
“This,” he announced, “is mine by right of heritage.”
For a moment nobody spoke; we all looked at my mother.
“Do you think you deserve it?” she asked.
“Possibly not,” Robert answered, “but my father said it should be mine to hand down to my children, and I have no reason to believe that he would have gone back on his word. It will look very well in my new house at St. Cloud… By the way, Cathie expects another baby in the spring.”
This was enough for my mother. “Take it,” she said, “but remember your father’s words when he promised it to you. It was to serve as a reminder of high craftsmanship, and was not intended to bring either fame or fortune.”
“Perhaps not,” said Robert, “but it rather depends on the hands that hold it.”
When Robert left us to return to Paris he had the goblet wrapped up with the rest of his possessions, and the following April, when his son Jacques was born, he and the many fine friends at St. Cloud who were invited to the christening toasted the child in champagne drunk from the goblet.
Meanwhile the rest of us settled down to life at le Chesne-Bidault without my father—with the exception, of course, of Pierre our eccentric, who, true to his decision, bought a notary’s practice in Le Mans and gave himself up to helping those less fortunate than himself. I thought myself that he should have had the goblet rather than Robert, for although he would no longer make glass he was a craftsman in his own way, and deliberately chose to live up to the high standard set by my father. Certainly he never lacked clients, and the poorer they were the better pleased was Pierre; he always had a string of unfortunates waiting on his doorstep. I had it in mind to go to Le Mans and keep house for him—it was practically settled between my mother and myself—and then, without a word to either of us, he went and got himself betrothed to a merchant’s daughter, a Mlle Dumesnil of Bonnétable, and was married within the month.
“So exactly like Pierre,” observed my mother. “He extricates the merchant from a difficult deal and gets landed with the daughter.”
The fact that Marie Dumesnil was older than Pierre, and brought him nothing very much in the way of a “dot,” prejudiced her in my mother’s eyes. However, she was a good creature and an excellent cook, and if she had not been suited to my brother he would never have taken her.
“Let us hope,” said my mother, “that Michel will not allow himself to be caught so easily.”
“Don’t f-f-fret yourself,” replied her youngest son. “I have enough to do at le Chesne-Bidault k-keeping out of your way without s-saddling myself with a wife.”
The truth was that Michel and my mother had settled down remarkably well together, and now my father was no longer there to find fault with him, or become exasperated with his stammer, Michel was proving himself an excellent master—under my mother’s direction, needless to say. Two or three of the craftsmen who had worked with Michel at Aubigny in le Berry had followed him to le Chesne-Bidault, which showed the influence he must have had upon them. Others had been either workmen or apprentices at la Pierre, and had known him from boyhood.
We were indeed a community at le Chesne-Bidault, with my mother the ruling spirit, and Michel more of a comrade to the men than manager. He was a natural leader, as my father had been before him, but his ways were very different. When my father had entered the furnace house at the start of a melt, the noisy clatter and rough joking that went with a crowd of men living at close quarters would instantly cease; each man went to his appointed task in silence, without further ado. It was not that they feared the master, but they held him in deep respect. Michel expected neither silence nor respect. His theory was that the greater the clatter the better the response to work, especially if the loudest singing—for all glassworkers are natural singers—and the broadest jokes were started by himself.
He always knew when my mother was likely to make her rounds, which she did every day as matter of principle; then he would give the signal for order, and the men would respond. I think she suspected what went on in her absence, but the output from the glass-house remained steady, so she had no cause for complaint.
The chemical and scientific instruments that had been perfected by my father at la Brûlonnerie continued to be made at le Chesne-Bidault—we would send them locally to Saumur and to Tours, and naturally to Paris too. The fine table-glass that my uncle Michel had designed at la Pierre was not made by us at the smaller foundry. For one thing we had not the craftsmen, although we employed over eighty men, and for another the instruments were less costly to produce. Here at le Chesne-Bidault my mother had the farm to attend to, besides the orchard and garden, and well over forty families in her care, some of whom lived down the hill at le Plessis-Dorin and others through the forest near Montmirail, though the majority were housed in lodgings around the glass-house itself.
Edmé and I were brought up to care for the families just as our mother did. This meant visiting some of them every day and seeing to their needs—for none of the wives could read or write, and perhaps needed letters sent to distant relatives, which we would write for them. Often it would be necessary to drive to la Ferté-Bernard or even to Le Mans on some errand for the families, for their lodgings were bare enough; they had little in the way
of comforts, and wages were low.
We were continually asked to be godparents, which meant that more than usual attention had to be paid to our godchildren. Edmé and I found this something of an added burden, but our mother insisted. She must have had thirty godchildren at least, and she never forgot the birthday of one of them.
We were never idle at le Chesne-Bidault. If we were not visiting the families we were employed by my mother about the house, sewing, mending, making preserves; or gardening and fruit picking, depending on the season of the year. My mother would never allow anyone to be idle, and in winter, when there was snow on the ground and we could not get out, she would set us to stitching blankets for the women and children.
I expected no other life, and was never dissatisfied. All the same, I looked upon it as a great treat when I was allowed to visit Robert and Cathie in Paris perhaps two or three times a year.
So far there had been no repetition of his former folly. His position as first engraver in crystal to the glass-house in the park of St. Cloud, near the pont de Sèvres, had brought him some renown, and in 1784 the foundry had for title “Manufacture des Cristaux et Emaux de la Reine.” My brother and Cathie had lodgings close to the glass-house, and although they only had two or three rooms of a very different size from those at Rougement, Robert had furnished them in the latest style, and Cathie herself was prinked out like a lady of the Court. She was as pretty and as affectionate as ever, always delighted to see me, and the baby Jacques was a fine little fellow.
As to Robert himself, I never could help contrasting his appearance, and his manner too, with those of Pierre and Michel. If I stayed overnight at Le Mans, as I sometimes did, Pierre would invariably return from his office late, having been detained by one of his unfortunate clients. His hair would be unbrushed and his neckerchief anyhow, and there would be a patch on his coat as likely as not, and he would snatch something to eat, hardly aware of what he tasted, while he recounted to me some tale of poverty that had been unfolded to him, which he was determined to redress.