Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution (45 page)

His second case involved a young woman who had failed to wear a cockade in public. She protested absentmindedness: her husband had been recently called up in the
levée
, she had two children, and she was in a hurry going to market and had simply forgotten to put on the tricolor. The count said he assumed she knew the recent law that women must display a cockade in public and asked her, What if, one morning, the National Guard protested absentmindedness and simply forgot to protect the nation from the Austrians and the Prussians? This elicited some small chuckles from the clerks in the room and my presumed reporter, and the count ordered her to return to the Town Hall tomorrow, prominently displaying her cockade, and to wait now with the others on the benches to the side of the great room, where I had sat.

The next case, of hoarding candles, actually had a witness, a seemingly vindictive neighbor, whom the count asked, Would you still have turned your neighbor in if you would not receive the reward for reporting hoarders? She said she expected none, so the count dismissed her, and she, angrily, demanded the reward that the government said was rightfully hers. The count told the alleged hoarder to give twenty candles to the neighbor, who left outraged, and the hoarder took her place with the others.

A refractory priest was then shown in, who had refused to take the new oath of allegiance and had been caught hiding in the old cloisters of Saint-Saturnin, near where I lived. One side of his face was dis-colored, as if he had been beaten during his arrest or sometime after.

The count sentenced the priest to deportation.

Then a group of farmers stood, accused of resisting giving grain to the army. One of them was a giant peasant who said, boldly, that he needed every ounce of grain to support his family. The count said mildly that we all must make sacrifices now and ordered them to bring to the Town Hall their next twelve bushels of grain.

The next case seemed especially absurd. An upper-bourgeoisie mother and daughter (much like Maman and Angelique, I thought) had been overheard expressing opposition to the Revolution. They had called the Committee of Public Safety “boorish” for shutting down their favorite magazine, the
Journal of Style and Taste
. I almost laughed aloud, then realized they were accused of being counter-revolutionaries. The count told them that, under threat of imprisonment for six months, as difficult as it might be, they were to keep their private opinions private. They were free to go after further questioning.

In the count’s last case of the morning, perhaps the most pathetic, a farmer and his son had evaded the new
levée en masse
. When the representatives-on-mission came from Paris to oversee the conscription, the father had hidden his son in nearby woods and brought him food until the representatives left their village. The father protested, without his son, how would he run his farm? The count said that thousands were in the same situation and sentenced the son to immediate enlistment and the father to return to the farm and desist from any more obstruction of the law.

It was near noon now, and the accused, surrounded by four armed guardsmen, crowded the benches. I saw the giant gaze up at the cherubs. Finally, the representative, introduced simply as “Citizen Carrier,” strode in quickly, and the count vacated his seat and sat further down the table. The representative was dressed in a smart black frock coat with a carefully tied neckcloth, but he also wore the symbol of the extreme revolutionaries, the
sans-culottes
—long trousers rather than knee breeches—except these were of fine cashmere, not the coarse cloth of the Parisian workingman. The count crossed his arms and seemed to regard narrowly the representative, who, without asking for a review of any of the cases, addressed the accused, the few spectators, and the lawyers and clerks in the room.

He was a tall, very thin man and had a gentle voice when he spoke, like a tired father trying to make a recalcitrant son see reason.

“I have already made myself familiar with all these cases,” he said, as if it were a matter of little concern. “You all know, or at least have heard, that we are on the threshold of a new world order. No, we have passed through that door and are about to bathe in the glorious sun-shine of liberty and equality. And I refer not just to our great nation but to humanity itself.” He paused.

“But to do this,” and he continued with the same sincere, even friendly tone, “we must work as brothers; we must have a fraternity of common will. You will agree, then, if one has the opportunity—no, the
responsibility
—to regenerate mankind”—and he paused again—“the only crime, and indeed a heinous one at that, would be in some way to
obstruct
that sacred process. This obstruction could be large—threatening the nation with invasion, for instance, as is the case with the allied front of Austria, Prussia, and Great Britain, aided and abetted by the perfidy of the émigrés—our own depraved aristocrats. Or”—and now he looked thoughtful, almost sad—“the obstruction could be seemingly small. Perhaps one merely
forgot
to wear the beautiful tricolor rosette that proclaims one’s love of one’s country; perhaps one just wanted to sing songs, that in the darkness of superstition, have always been sung; perhaps one forgets one’s neighbor’s needs and keeps important items, such as candles, all for one’s own use; perhaps one thinks that our glorious fighting men can defend our nation without food in their bellies; perhaps one carelessly casts aspersions on a Republic that espouses greater virtues than those of the vanities of fashion, or”—and here his gentle, but insistent voice, grew in intensity—“or perhaps one has forgotten the invaders on all our borders. One has forgotten that France stands alone against the world—and thinks that one’s own harvest is more important than the harvest of liberty and of peace, or perhaps”—and now his voice raised itself almost to a fury—“one has stubbornly and brazenly refused to offer allegiance to this great Republic and insists, in ancient priestly arrogance, to think oneself above the law.”

He paused once more, and when he resumed, his voice was again soft and his tone reasonable. “These offenses may seem small in themselves, but I tell you, they constitute an even greater threat than all of the allied armies combined”—and suddenly his pitched intensity returned—“for these are the crimes of the haters of liberty. These are the people who work from within the nation to destroy our brotherhood of freedom; these are the real enemies of
la patrie
, our country.

“Whether he acts from stupidity or from intention, he is of the party of the tyrants who make war on us. We have new masters now—not the old barons and counts”—he paused—“but no less cruel or insolent. These are the enemies who stand, unseen, among us. To ensure the security of the nation, one must punish not only the traitors, but even those who are indifferent, or careless, or selfish. Through the Revolution, the French people has manifested its will, and all that is outside of that will is the enemy.”

I wondered how long he could go on in this harangue. The count looked utterly bored. He must have heard it all before. I was not bored; I was scared. Now Citizen Carrier’s voice grew gentle again.

“There are only two types of people in France today—the patriot and the counter-revolutionary. The guilty parties here have shown where their sympathies lie.”

And the representative stood up, his fingertips pressing the table.

“Therefore I will overrule the magistrate’s verdicts.” I looked at the count, and he was staring at the table. “In his capacity as a newly appointed local official, he was unable to see the gravity of these crimes in terms of the crisis of the nation as a whole. There is no hope for prosperity or peace as long as the last enemy of liberty breathes.

All the guilty parties here—without exception—shall be delivered to the guillotine. That is the sovereign will of the people, of whom I am the representative, chosen by the Committee of Public Safety with absolute authority in these matters.” He paused and looked at the aristocrats who had sung the hymns, then at the priest. “I might add that it has become abundantly clear that—as it is said in Paris—France will never be secure until the last aristocrat is strangled in the bowels of the last priest,” and Citizen Carrier strode from the grand room, as if he had more important matters to attend to.

“So you see, my dear,” the count said, “that I do earn my money after all.”

We were in a small dining room reserved for the lawyers in the Town Hall. It only had two pillars and one chandelier. Because of Citizen Carrier’s speech, we were late, and only a pair of men talked at a far table by the window; we sat in a corner on embroidered chairs that must have once known bishops’ velvet robes.

“The man’s quite insane; he should be in an asylum,” I said softly.

“
He
is the threat to the security of the nation.”

“He has the force of the government behind him,” the count said.

“What I think you don’t realize is—” He paused as a waiter brought in the bread. The waiter poured a glass of red wine for the count and me, and left. The count sipped his wine and made a face. “The new order doesn’t know about wine,” he said.

I thought the bread was good. Bread was, once again, becoming increasingly scarce. “For the true Jacobin,” the count continued, “politics is a religion. Perhaps that is why they hate priests so.
They
want to be the only priests. Only the Jacobins can claim the right now to regenerate mankind, as Carrier put it. And you know, my dear, you and I, all those poor people on the benches—we are as nothing before the will to change the world. Any nonbeliever must be purged.

Carrier and his friends would have done well during the Inquisition.

They just would have been wearing hoods. The point is, religious zealots have always been the ones who are the most willing to kill their fellow man. Just look at history.”

The waiter brought in our lunch of eels with mushrooms and prunes. “I hate eating here,” the count said. “Eels should be simmered in mature wine.”

“Why did you invite me here?” I said.

“To enlighten you on the future of Europe, I believe I said in my letter. The little drama of Citizen Carrier should have done that.”

“So now I’ve seen cases that make me angry. I already know of the injustice of the new regime, believe me—”

“And you’re already doing something about it—”

“In a small way, thanks to you.”

“I have nothing to do with it and know nothing about it. Do you care about the fate of these people today?”

“Of course. They do not deserve to die for their non-crimes.”

“Would you be willing to do something about that, too?”

I paused with a piece of eel flesh on my fork.

“Would you be willing to risk more than taking a ride on your horse at night?” the count said. “If you say no, that is fine; we will just enjoy our eels and prunes and you can say how splendid I was in my useless capacity of magistrate.”

“How long has Carrier been here?” I said.

“Almost a week, and he has undermined every case I have heard since then. I might as well stay in my slippers in my château. You see, it is partly revenge against Carrier that I want.” He glanced over at the two men, who were leaving their table now. “Sip your bitter wine,” the count said, “and don’t be hasty in your response.”

“Can you tell me more about what you are referring to?”

He leaned over his plate. “I’m talking about releasing them all from prison. Illegally. At night. In a plan of genius. My motives are simply revenge, as I said, against the mockery of justice that is flooding this nation. It will be amusing, if it works. They will see they are not invincible. That people can resist them. Carrier and his crowd will be publicly embarrassed. I, of course, will be comfortably at home. I know you have taken risks before, and they don’t seem to bother you.

You are really just as mad as your Englishman, who tried to oppose the Jacobins by writing sincere articles for the Girondins—”

“How did you—”

“Seriously, are you interested?”

“Let me judge the level of ‘genius.’ I don’t have an army for a prison break, Count. I have a horse and sometimes a groom with a limp.”

“That is quite satisfactory. Only you’ll need a boat, and Edouard, my exquisite valet, will conjure one up, with the help of a couple of royalist sailors in need of money and a noble mission. They will have contacts downriver, part of a network with which I believe you’re familiar.”

“You’re a royalist spy,” I whispered.

“No, nothing that romantic or dangerous. By being magistrate, I merely gain security from the new order and some soothing of conscience by occasionally helping the old. I can’t do much. It was your asking the use of the lodge that put me in this frame of mind. You’re the daughter of my old friend who would not be afraid to act, were he here. You shamed me, my dear, so, with the help of Edouard, I have made a few contacts. But as I said, I take no risks.”

The waiter entered the room, picked up our plates. “We will need nothing more,” the count said. “Just leave us the water,” and the waiter left.

“You could have asked me about coffee,” I said. “I haven’t had any for months.”

“Not even here,” the count said, “though some restaurants get it through the black market. Do you know what this building used to be?”

“Of course. The Bishop’s Palace.” The count nodded and filled my water glass.

“Once, deep in the old cellars, among the racks of fine vintages, when the bishop was showing me a Chinon ’65, I asked him, Where does that rusty iron door lead? He said it was an escape route, built during the religious wars—though I myself think it was really used to smuggle in a woman. It led to the cathedral crypt, so she must have been a brave or a well-paid woman.”

I laughed. “Etienne and I discovered that door when we were kids. While our parents thought we were at confession, sometimes all of us children would play hide and seek in the crypt. One time, it was only Etienne and I, and when I found him near the door to a marble vault, he remarked that it was slightly ajar and dared me to enter it. We always brought candles for our game, so I went ahead. Once inside, I found a passageway and couldn’t
not
follow it, and then poor Etienne had to follow me. After that, we went to confession.”