Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution

A Novel
of the
French Revolution

James Tipton

Copyright © 2007 by James Tipton.

All rights reserved.

Designed by Leah Carlson-Stanisic

Jacket design by Laura Klynstra

Jacket art: Portrait of a Young Woman by follower of Jacques Louis David © Bonhams, London, UK / The Bridgeman Art Library

Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader October 2007

e-ISBN 978-0061548918

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive.

But to be young was very heaven.

William Wordsworth,
The Prelude, Book X

Adieu, mon ami. . . . Aime toujours ta petite fille et

ton Annette qui t’embrasse mil fois sur la bouche,

sur les yeux. . . . Adieu, je t’aime pour la vie.

Annette Vallon, from a letter to William Wordsworth

January 4, 1821, Paris

It’s raining. Through the veiled January day I can still see the river, as if unmoving, in the distance. But it is moving. My God, we saw the world change. I want to get it down before I am old. The window, slightly ajar, brings in the rain-fresh air that mixes with the smell of aged leather on the three diaries in front of me. But it is not all in the diaries, and I had to stop writing them, for fear they would fall into the wrong hands. My memories remain fresh and cool. I remember the feel of a silk sleeve on my skin, the lightness of taffeta when I danced, and the big riding cloak when I could feel the reassuring weight of a pistol in each pocket.

I remember the river flowing through it all, glazed with sunsets or cracking with ice. We were all young then. So many minds thought France was bringing about a new world of freedom and equality and brotherhood. I loved a young poet, who had come from England full of those thoughts and of a love of words with which to build his own vision. Some tried to change the world. I just tried to live in it, which became increasingly difficult.

I loved a young poet then.

But may you never have a revolution in
this
country,” the tall American said.

We were dining at the grand house of my older sister and her husband. The American gentleman had come down from Paris in a golden carriage on some business regarding my brother-in-law’s vineyard. I had not paid attention to what it was: I was only sixteen and fresh out of convent school.

“In France you enjoy the most graceful lifestyle in the world,” he continued. “You value philosophy, literature, art, music, all the sciences, more than any culture I know, including my own,” and he laughed. “But your people do not have any representation in the government. To that end, I hope they may be educated, but gradually—for if they were thrust headlong into a freedom which they have never known, it would be chaos. A revolution here would not be as it was in my country, against a foreign power; a revolution here would be...a disaster. But forgive me for presuming to speak on a subject of which you know far more than I. What do
you
think, Mademoiselle?” And his blue eyes suddenly looked directly at me.

I frantically tried to think of something, one line from Rousseau that I had talked about with the girls because I had applied it to the despotic Sister Angèle.

“I think that since Might cannot produce Right, the only legitimate authority in human societies is
agreement
.”

The American laughed. “That must be an enlightened convent school your parents sent you to,” he said.

“I’m afraid, Monsieur, that some of us read Rousseau in secret.”

“Well, for now,” he said, “Rousseau may be best kept behind closed doors in France and pondered upon by fine young minds.” And he turned to the men.

We were on to the duck with orange now. Our guest took a bite of the meat but held back on the sauce. I was impatient for the steaming sauceboat, placed in front of him, with its mélange of caramelized sugar, lemon and orange juices, white wine, and red currant jelly.

A servant poured a ruby wine into the one glass I was allowed at dinner. I was sure it was my brother-in-law’s vintage, which he said smelled of green peppers and pea pods. He was championing a red wine in the land of famous whites. I reached for my glass, then caught Papa’s eye and became aware of a curious tension at the table.

Our guest, my father had told me, was the finest wine connoisseur in the New World and had a peculiarity about trying new wines. He thought they were only truly appreciated in the context of food, so he waited until dinner to make his final decisions. He had come all the way from Paris now for this moment. All his pleasant and insightful conversation, all of my sister’s dinner plans and Cook’s lengthy preparations, were leading to this.

The American drank some water, raised his wineglass, inspected the color within—I noticed a flame from the hearth reflected, shimmering, in the burgundy depths—swirled it gently, tipped, sniffed it—would he smell peppers and pea pods? He closed his eyes, sipped, held, and almost chewed the wine. He seemed oblivious to us, in a world of pure concentration.

I could smell the sauce, see its curling steam, and very much wanted him to pass it to me. But there was no rushing the moment. A smile gradually spread across his handsome face. He opened his blue eyes.

“Monsieur Vincent,” he said, “it exceeds all expectations. It must be those cool limestone caves you keep it in.”

The table relaxed. Maybe he would now pour the sauce. But he held the eye of my brother-in-law. This was a moment of business transacted between gentlemen, at a table laden with duck and wine.

“I will take ten cases and, with your permission, the soil samples I collected today back to Paris,” the foreigner said.

I liked his hair. My father and brother-in-law had powdered wigs, and here was this bright red hair that seemed to shine in the candlelight.

Our guest lifted the porcelain boat and discreetly lavished his duck with the sauce that was now coming my way. He paused a moment and took in the fragrance. Then he returned to business. “And I will accept your offer to ship some vines to Virginia.”

“I would be honored,” my brother-in-law said.

“I will call it,” said the American, “the Shenandoah grape.”

I liked the name. “Pardon, Monsieur?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle?”

“Could you please say that name again?”

“Shenandoah,” he said. “It is the river that runs near my home.

Like your great river here. It is very beautiful, and I miss it. When I think of America, I do not think of the vast Atlantic seaboard and of our victory against the British Empire; I think of one small patch of rocky land on top of a cliff overlooking the river. So you remember that, Mademoiselle,” and he looked at me again, his eyes twinkling.

“Remember what, Monsieur?”

“To thine own land be true,” and he smiled, and my brother-in-law asked him to sample another wine, and their conversation went on, but it isn’t part of my story.

I liked watching the slanting evening light that gleamed on the wild strawberries in the woods on either side of the road.

We had endured a long carriage ride, and it felt good now to be walking toward the château de Chenonceaux, its iron gates and front arches and tower just visible at the end of a long aisle of plane trees.

I liked this château. As a girl one summer we had stayed here a week, and my older sister, Marguerite, and I once ran through the long hall that crosses the river, our steps echoing on the black-and-white-checkered floor, river light catching in the panes of the dormer windows, its shadows dancing over the walls, and I stopped and leaned out an open window over the dazzling water and felt that I was not in a stone château at all, but in a
gabare
, a large vessel on the Loire, its sails full. I also got delightfully lost in the maze one evening. As I turned the corners between the hedges, it was like going from one green glade into another. Marguerite finally had to come and fetch me.

Now I was going to my first end-of-the-season fête at this grand château. Maman had pointed out what a privilege it was for a girl just out of convent school, and Marguerite, who wasn’t coming this year, said you never knew
what
to expect at the last fête. Papa, who had work to do in town, said these fêtes were silly things and it would be far more enlightening for me to become more familiar with his library at home.

But I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. This was life, coming to greet me. And like Julie in my favorite novel, I would open my arms to it. The day had started simply, with finding the right satin ribbon that matched the decoration in my wide-brimmed hat. Then we had the long journey, following the river west. And tonight I would observe the elegant dancers, the folded fans swaying from the ladies’

wrists as they took the hand of the gentlemen who bowed, and they both moved in unison to a music of mathematical precision. The heavenly spheres themselves, hanging in space, were governed by the same harmony that regulated the dancers, I believed. I myself hoped to learn all the intricate steps this summer. Now it was enough just to watch.

Maman held the arm of our old family friend, Count Thibaut of the château de Beauregard.

“Come now, ladies, we ’re late,” he said.