Mistress of the Revolution (8 page)

With that he bowed and, much to my relief, took his leave. Our courtship was limited to this single occasion. Thus was my marriage decided, with no more regard for my wishes and feelings than if I had been a cow sold at the cattle fair in Vic.

After the signing of my marriage contract, I was allowed to leave my bedroom, and on the next Sunday I attended High Mass with my brother and mother in the church of Lavigerie. We took our places in the seats reserved for the lord and his family in the chancel. Over the years, I had often heard Father Delmas read from the pulpit, after the sermon, the banns of marriage for my brother’s vassals. Now the priest cleared his voice to announce, with more solemnity than usual, the forthcoming union between the Noble Lady Marie Gabrielle de Montserrat and the High and Mighty Lord Donatien Aimé François de Laubrac, Baron de Peyre, de Cénaret and de La Clavière, Colonel of the Royal Dragoons and Knight of the Order of Saint-Louis. Father Delmas, after catching his breath, invited anyone aware of any legal impediment to such marriage to step forward. I knew that all eyes were turned towards me. I stared at the stone floor, wishing for it to open and swallow me alive. Excited whispers rippled through the congregation. I would not have been more ashamed if I had stood naked in the middle of the church.

Over the following days, the news of my future marriage became, according to Joséphine, the topic of all conversations from Vic to Aurillac. I kept wondering what Pierre-André was feeling. The reading of the banns in church had made my engagement public. He must by now have understood that it was all over. Perhaps he had learned that I had signed my marriage contract already, he was now resigned to losing me, he had given up any thought of me. Or maybe he was very angry with me. He thought, with good cause, that I had betrayed him. Those ideas tormented me no less than the prospect of my own fate and were not put to rest until Joséphine told me of an incident that had taken place in Lavigerie.

Pierre-André and my brother happened to ride into town at the same time. Pierre-André, without removing his hat, addressed the Marquis most disrespectfully as “Sir” instead of “My Lord.” In a thunderous voice, he told my brother that my family must have lost all common decency to throw a girl of fifteen into the bed of an old swine three times her age. My brother responded that such insolence from a commoner was intolerable, and that he would receive no lessons on what to do with his own sister. Pierre-André replied, among other things, that the nobles’ arrogance, which seemed to increase in exact proportion to their poverty, made him sick to his stomach and that all aristocrats, beggarly and wealthy alike, would receive what they deserved sooner than they expected. Both men dismounted. Pierre-André caught my brother by his necktie and threatened to kill him with his bare hands, while the Marquis drew the sword he wore as a sign of his rank. The outcome of the fight would not have been in doubt, for, although Pierre-André was by far the taller and heavier man of the two, he was unarmed. The villagers, alerted by the sound of his voice, had rushed to the scene and managed to separate the combatants, who had gone their separate ways, glowering at each other.

“Of course,” said Joséphine, “young Dr. Coffinhal deserves the gallows for assaulting My Lord, and in Lavigerie too, in the middle of the Marquis’s jurisdiction.”

“Will my brother press charges?”

“I’m sure he’d like to see your suitor hanged, but he has to keep quiet because of the scandal it’d create, with your name mentioned between them in public like that. And he can’t fight a commoner in a duel either. So My Lord tried to recruit men among the servants and peasants to have your suitor thrashed for his insolence, but he couldn’t find any volunteers. Young Dr. Coffinhal is well known around here. He’s strong as a horse and he has quite a temper. People are afraid of him. No one, even with the help of other fellows, wants to risk a broken arm or jaw, or worse, in that kind of expedition.”

I was pained by the idea of such an encounter between the two men I loved best. I was also moved at the thought that Pierre-André had not forgotten me and that he pitied the distress of my situation, to the point of putting his life at risk to express his opinion of the match. I wondered whether any of it had reached the Baron’s ears, and allowed myself to hope that it might alter his plans.

I visited Joséphine with great punctuality, since she was my best source of information about tidings that concerned me most closely. A few days later, I entered the kitchen as she was running a plucked chicken by the fire to burn the remaining feathers. The acrid smell filled the room. Without a word, she reached into her pocket and slipped into my hand a note, sealed and without any direction, which read as follows:

I felt as if sunlight had suddenly flooded the kitchen. Pierre-André, against all odds, in spite of my engagement to another man, still wanted me. Joséphine was cutting open the chicken and removing the giblets. She grumbled when I kissed her madly. I threw the note into the fire of the
cantou
, where it burnt with a bright flame, then shriveled to ashes in a moment.

Indeed I remembered Father Marty very well. My family no longer kept a chaplain, and he, as the parish priest of Lavigerie, had come to Fontfreyde to prepare me for my First Communion. Shortly afterwards, he had been arrested in a house of convenience in Aurillac for molesting one of the ladies. My mother had mentioned the scandal at the dinner table. My brother had glanced at me and turned the conversation to a subject more suited to the ears of a maiden. Intrigued, I had sought more information from Joséphine. Gossip had it that, although all secular charges had been dropped against Father Marty, my mother had been so outraged at his conduct that she had obtained from the Bishop of Saint-Flour his removal from his pastoral duties in Lavigerie. Thanks to the good Father’s friends at the diocese, he had avoided being stripped of his priesthood. After a few months of severe penance in a monastery, he had been sent to the mountain hamlet of Pailherols, where cattle outnumbered Christians ten to one. According to rumour, he had taken to drinking in the solitude of his new parish.

My marriage to Pierre-André would need to be celebrated and consummated before I was missed at Fontfreyde in the morning of the 2nd. I was ignorant of the niceties of canon law, but knew that the scandal would then be too great for my family to question the validity of the ceremony. What would happen next the letter did not say, but I trusted that Pierre-André would have taken steps to secure our escape from the country until things quieted.

At no time did I waiver in my determination to elope. My wedding day was now but two weeks away. If Lord Blue Beard himself, he of the six murdered wives, had sprung alive from the pages of my book of fairy tales, I would have chosen him over the Baron.

The moon was only two days short of full and the weather clear and dry. Escalmels was three miles from Fontfreyde, an easy ride. As a child, nothing would have induced me to venture outside the château at night. Now I had reached an age when I feared brutes of flesh and bone, such as the Baron, far more than werewolves or ghosts.

On the night of the 1st of September, I went to my bedroom as usual after prayers. I kissed my rag doll for the last time. I still played with it on occasion, but now I knew that I was bidding my childhood farewell. It was eleven when I wrapped myself in my winter cloak and left the silent château on tiptoe. My heart was beating fast as I unbarred the front door and closed it quietly behind me. I ran down the great stairs and to the stables. Jewel whinnied softly when he caught my scent in the dark. I stroked his face to silence him, put his bridle on and wrapped his hooves in the rags I had prepared. The place was so familiar that I could find my way without the help of a lantern. I led him out of his stall.

As I was ready to cross the threshold of the stables, a dark figure appeared from the shadows and blocked my passage. I felt all warmth leave my body. My brother was standing in front of me. He said calmly: “I know everything. Follow me and keep silent.”

I had no intention of doing either. I pushed him away and ran for a few paces, but he caught me. I fought him as long as I could, hoping till the end to escape, but he was stronger, and desperate to stop me. Holding me by the waist with both arms, he dragged me towards the house while I struggled to escape his grip. Since there was no longer any hope in secrecy, I cried at the top of my lungs. Jewel, seeing me attacked, neighed wildly and reared on his back legs. The rags I had tied around his hooves came loose. Sparks flew in the darkness where his shoes hit the cobblestones of the courtyard. Lights appeared at several windows, and faces looked out to discover the cause of the commotion. My brother hissed: “Little bitch! You will not be happy until you have utterly disgraced us.”

I heard footsteps. My mother and the servants, in their nightclothes, appeared at the top of the outside stairs. My brother, still struggling to restrain me, shouted at them to all go back to bed, except for my mother and Joséphine. With the help of both, he half-carried, half-dragged me, still screaming, up the front stairs and down to a little cellar. Joséphine kept apples, carrots, and turnips in a sand bin there, and she stored the preserves she made through the course of the year on the shelves that lined the walls. It smelled of mildew and dried fruit. The solid oak door and the lack of any window, except for a tiny opening under the ceiling, precluded any chance of escape. I was dropped on the dirt floor. I heard the door slam behind me and the key turn in the lock. After a time, my brother came back, bringing with him a straw mattress and a blanket, which he threw at me in silence. He locked the door behind him without another look at me. Although I had no light, I knew the cellar well, having come there often with Joséphine. It did not frighten me. I had, in any case, reached depths of despair where fear had no place. It would have been dreadful to marry the Baron knowing that Pierre-André had abandoned me, but the idea that he had still wanted me, and that we now had to forsake each other in spite of our pledge, was unbearable. He would be at that time waiting for me at the crossroads of Escalmels, thinking that I had not the courage, or did not love him enough to join him. My throat was sore from screaming. I reached for the mattress and blanket in the dark. Soon I went to sleep, as much to escape my situation as from exhaustion.

I awoke the next morning when the Marquis brought me a pitcher of water and a piece of dark bread, such as the servants ate. I raised myself on one arm, blinking at his lantern.

“You have no one to blame but yourself for your current position,” he said in a stern voice. “If I locked you in your bedroom, you would find a way to escape. You will be safe here until your wedding.”

“How did you find out?”

“You are very naive, Gabrielle. Joséphine showed me your suitor’s letter before she gave it to you. I could have kept it and you would never have known about it, but I wanted to see whether I could trust you. On this point I no longer have any doubts.”

So Joséphine, whom I had believed for years to be my friend, had betrayed me. My anger at her treason added to my other sorrows.

The tiny window barely allowed any daylight to pierce the darkness. I became so accustomed to it that I had to turn away from the dim glow of my brother’s lantern. He did not entrust to anyone the task of bringing me my bread and water every morning and night. I counted with anguish the days that still separated me from my marriage.

On the morning of the 14th, my brother appeared as usual. “Father Delmas will hear your confession this afternoon,” he said. “You will be married tomorrow and cannot approach the Holy Table without receiving the absolution.”

Until then, I had gone to the church of Lavigerie for confession, but my family must have feared that I would take advantage of any outing to run away. I had never liked the idea of imparting my sins to a stranger. During confession, I would always resort to the same short list of sins, such as being lazy and not listening to my mother. The more interesting ones I kept to myself. This time, I would have to repeat the procedure, not in the reassuring darkness of the confessional, but in plain view of the priest in my mother’s drawing room. I could imagine her listening at the door.

I felt light-headed after being freed from the confined space of my prison. I put my hand to my eyes as the light inside the house blinded me. My brother seized me roughly by the arm and pushed me into the main drawing room. He left me there. Father Delmas opened his arms in a gesture of welcome.

“Dear, dear child,” he said, smiling and shaking his head with indulgence. “What have you done? Yet you need not despair. God will hear you if you show sincere contrition.”

He made the sign of the cross, sat down in a chair and pointed at the carpet. I knelt next to him and joined my hands. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” I hesitated.

“I am listening, child,” he said. “Speak without fear.”

“Father, I am on the verge of committing a grievous sin. If I obey my brother, I will marry a man for whom I do not feel the least affection.”

He sighed. “My child, your real sin, a mortal one, a sin of pride, is to defy the wishes of your guardian. You have already caused him much sorrow by your disobedience. You must repent to receive the sacrament of penance.”

“Father, I do not repent at all. It would be a sin for me to enter the state of matrimony unprepared to love my future husband. I could not make him a good wife without having had time to receive spiritual guidance.”

Father Delmas’s unctuous smile had been wiped off his face.

“If you listen to me now, child, you will receive all the guidance you need. You are gravely mistaken in your notions. Love, as you understand it, is a fleeting illusion, worse, a lure of the Devil. Matrimony, on the contrary, is a holy sacrament. The kind of affection one finds in that blessed state has nothing in common with the miserable feelings under which you are labouring. The only love God sanctions follows marriage and rewards the fulfillment of its duties; it does not precede it nor determine it. The remission of your sins is fully within your reach, child, if you marry as you are told. My Lord the Marquis, who has the authority of a father under the laws of God and men, has chosen a husband for you. Only by submitting to his wishes can you atone for your outrageous misconduct.”

Father Delmas pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his cassock. “Do you not hear the call of duty? Even if your guardian’s choice were misguided, you should still obey him without a whisper of protest.”

Still on my knees, I moved back a few feet.

“But he has kept your best interest in mind,” Father Delmas continued, mopping sweat from his forehead. “In terms of rank, of fortune, of respectability, you could not do better if you waited ten years for another offer. True, there is a slight disparity of age between My Lord the Baron and you, but even that should be reckoned as an advantage. A younger, less experienced husband might have some trouble asserting his authority given your unfortunate tendency to willfulness. In sum, it is a most eligible match in all respects.”

Father Delmas, now standing, was wagging a fat finger in my face. I also rose, glaring at him.

“You shall receive the sacrament of matrimony tomorrow,” he continued. “For your penance, recite ten
Paster Nosters
and ten
Aves
and prostrate yourself at your brother’s feet. May the Almighty have mercy on you and forgive your sins.”

Father Delmas made the sign of the cross and left. My brother, sullen, was waiting for me outside the door. He asked the priest to wait while he took me back to the cellar. After half an hour, the Marquis returned and sat by my side on the straw mattress.

“I have spoken to Father Delmas,” he said. “I see that you remain as undutiful as ever.”

“So this is how he treats the seal of confession.”

“From what I understand, your conversation with him can hardly be deemed a confession, for you expressed only further defiance and no repentance. I cannot tell you how angry I am.”

“I beg you to forgive me, Sir. I assure you that my sole wish now is to live quietly at Fontfreyde as in the past. I promise never to see Pierre-André again, if you release me from my engagement to the Baron. I will never again give you the slightest displeasure.”

The Marquis glared at me. “How dare you in the same breath beg my forgiveness and refuse to obey me? I am tired, Gabrielle, of all the grief you have already caused and have no intention of serving indefinitely as your jailer. Your failed elopement makes your immediate marriage the only remedy to our plight. Are you, yes or no, going to do as you are told tomorrow?”

I did not hesitate. “No.”

For the first time, I heard my brother swear. “You are the most stubborn, ungrateful, undutiful creature I have ever met. I was, however, already prepared for the worst. Read this.”

He pulled from his pocket a sheet of paper, which I read by the light of the lantern. It was a request to the King for a
lettre de cachet
. It related how a young lady of the nobility, seduced by a commoner, had attempted to throw herself into the power of her suitor. She was now refusing to obey her guardian and enter into a most advantageous match. The letter concluded by respectfully requesting my imprisonment in the harshest of convents until it pleased the Marquis to take me back.

In France, at that time, anyone, regardless of rank, could be imprisoned upon the order of the King, in any place and for any duration, for any reason or for no reason at all.
Lettres de cachet
were thus requested by families who wished to discreetly rid themselves of spendthrift sons, undutiful wives or rebellious daughters. I knew that my brother’s threat was by no means empty. Still, reclusion in a convent seemed more appealing than marrying the Baron.

“One last time,” said my brother, “will you obey me?”

“No, Sir.”

He took my chin in his hand. “Fine. I will send this to the King. You will only leave this cellar for the convent, where you will spend the rest of your life. You will soon come to regret the treatment I have afforded you here.” The Marquis spoke through his clenched teeth. “As for your lover, do you know, Gabrielle, that a man who induces a young woman to flee the protection of her father or guardian is punished by death?”

I felt faint. So Pierre-André had put his life at stake by asking me to elope with him. My brother’s letter fell from my hand.

“And there are aggravating circumstances in this case,” he continued. “Since you are a noblewoman and your seducer a commoner, he will be sentenced to the wheel. Before taking you to your convent, I will make you watch the execution of that—that—” The Marquis seemed at a loss to find a term vile enough to describe Pierre-André “—that peasant, that scoundrel. You have never seen a criminal broken and exposed on the wheel, have you?”

I shook my head in horror.

“Then I will tell you what to expect, Gabrielle. Your seducer will be led to a scaffold, then stripped of his clothes. The executioner will tie him, flat on his back, to a cross, and hit him with an iron bar on the arms, thighs, legs and loins. Once his limbs and hips are broken, he will be untied. His legs will be folded under his back, and he will be fastened to a small carriage wheel. He will remain exposed in this position, with his head hanging over the rim and his shattered bones piercing his flesh. You will hear him howl in pain and beg for death. At last, at the time set by the court, and not a moment earlier, he will be strangled.” My brother paused. “I will make sure that you do not miss any of it.”

I was indifferent to my own fate. All that mattered was to save Pierre-André.

“I will marry the Baron tomorrow,” I said, “under one condition: you must not press charges. No harm must come to Pierre-André, now or in the future.” I looked into my brother’s eyes. “You must swear to it on the memory of our late father. Should you breach your promise, Sir, I will run away from my husband’s house; I will disgrace the Baron and our family.”

The Marquis hesitated for a moment, biting his lip. “You have my word of honour, Gabrielle. I summoned his brothers here on the day after your elopement and told them that he would be arrested if he caused any further scandal. Now I will demand only that he leave and never return to Auvergne. His punishment will be to know that you are in the power of another. Good night, Gabrielle.”

The French phrase
la mort dans l’âme
has no English equivalent and can be translated as “with death in one’s soul.” It comes to mind when I think of my last hours at Fontfreyde. Sometimes we do or endure things that are so wicked, so irretrievably harmful, so contrary to our feelings that part of ourselves is destroyed in the process. I had been taught to believe in the immortality of the soul. That night, I felt that mine died. I slept little and fitfully, startled from time to time by dreams in which some unforeseen and incredible event occurred to prevent my wedding. Alas, I always woke to the same situation and with the same thoughts. Finally, any kind of rest became impossible. I did my best to steady myself and muster my courage.