Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) (4 page)

1788, people were hungry, and hungry people make for unreasonable, angry people. For us, this was not so apparent at first. There was always angry grumbling against the king, and the many wars, unfair taxes and the overhanded way we were treated. Life went on, but for our family, there was also different kind of trouble on the horizon. We did not know it, or I did not, but my father’s promising career had stopped like a dead horse, and my great uncle was uniquely unhappy with him. He had hired a new apprentice, Gilbert’s father, Adam, when I was five. When I was ten, Adam too was a capable journeyman. I loved Guillemin, but father’s weaknesses were many and serious. The man who had held such great promise to mother had changed dramatically, or he had always been there, the failure hidden but present. From dreams to surfacing nightmares, the life around us was changing rapidly. Like an overstretched rope, my father eyed his younger, impassionate, calculatingly devious brother Adam, who was gaining on him, in fact resolutely climbing over him, fawning and working hard and the last years were lined with tension.

Colbert was going to change his plans.

I did not understand it then, but I am sure father did in some small way, even if his plentiful pride kept him believing otherwise.

Yet, to be fair towards Colbert, to make money that the family needs, to secure your ever-unreliable business, that was Colbert’s heavy responsibility. Adam was a better choice for his industriousness. I had to be fully grown up to accept it was not all due to Adam and Colbert that father failed. Wisdom comes with age, Marie. Father, your great grandfather, was neither a great bookseller nor an imaginative printer. A trained monkey could have outdone him in the business, for he stammered when asked inquisitive questions by the clients, he had few opinions; he was not in it with all his heart. What his true love was, perhaps he never knew that either. I heard Colbert often yell and curse at him, even invoking God to come and help father understand some simple point he had missed, sometimes after a costly mistake, and then give the job to Adam. I know father, in his unrealistic dreams, still expected to be made a master, one day, but despite the clear signals he did not study the trade diligently, and so, he would always be less than Adam, and he grew smaller in Colbert’s plans. Great uncle waited, I know, that much I give Colbert
credit for. He waited patiently for years, for a master is a creature hammered over time, shaped by near limitless patience, and he hoped, but he was also very disappointed. In addition, my father knew this; Adam knew it too and worked hard as a slave seeing the light of freedom.

CHAPTER 2

It was April 28th, 1789, and I had just turned twelve and mother had shocked me by telling I was soon to be a beautiful married woman and that I should not be morbidly afraid, should I bleed, for it was not serious. I knew I was growing, and changing and while I still had a long, glimmering, blonde hair, green, piercingly keen eyes and the pert nose she loved to twitch gently, I did know my breasts and hips were fuller. But to bleed? With certain smug satisfaction, as if to pay back the mischief I had caused she said I could have babies, I would be fertile and that I would get to know the wondrous joys of parenthood. She saw my sheet-white face and added quickly that I should not have babies any time soon, preferably not for a decade, gave me a pinched apple and I was so confused, Marie.

That day, I remember Gilbert explaining to me and Florian in self-satisfied, sage way that the sad king, after a bad autumn and a horrible winter, after catastrophic rise in prizes and multitude of nasty deaths by hunger, had agreed, reluctantly, for the Estates General to be convened. Now, people were to be elected and the assemblage that had not been held for hundreds of years, the place for all the grievances to be aired, and solutions fo
und, was coming along rapidly. Gilbert had memorized much of this, for he was trying to adopt a adult-like style of speaking, and our gentle teasing made his angry and upset, rather than sheepish with shame, but it was Gilbert, and he soon turned his thoughts to himself, brooding.

For the Third Estate, representing the ordinary man, this meeting was crucial. We wanted, I
understood from the exited chatter around the street, men who did not bow down to the fucking nobles or the fat clergy, men, who were going to get the particular treatment anyways.

Gilbert also told us how Duke of Orleans, king’s shifty relative had been fomenting heavy trouble against the king, acting the unexpected hero of the common man. In addition, the eloquent noble Mirabeau, a minor count, really, was another unexpected champion for the cause of the common people. Mirabeau would be the force to stand between the people and the king, but
today we all know he desired a king fashioned after the English one, one responsible and sharing power willingly with the parliament, an obedient ornament rather than a ruler. Lafayette, the fabulously wealthy aristocrat, made another strange wild card. He also would try to create a responsible monarchy, but I think he just tried to be an important actor in the French revolution, where he had failed miserably to impress in the American one, even if he had many friends on that side of the ocean. There were many important people, Marie, like these men, hundreds, in fact, but these men, and some others I will soon talk about were the men I remember from this time. Afterwards, at least, these men made a heavy enough mark so we still know of them, still look at their busts in the many memorials and many others who did great deeds for the change in the land sleep in their granite laden graves, forgotten.

The bourgeoisie, richer than many of the nobles, yet still but commoners were teeter tottering on the line of the wealthy commoners and the poor, who seemingly had no hope of airing their sentiments. The merchants could, and would lead the Third Estate vigorously with Mirabeau, but many also feared the brute common laborer. The third estate was not a substantial, single-minded force, and hence, many were unh
appy about the seemingly wealth-favoring elections. They feared those who had coin would betray them, as if they were slaves about to have a change of a master, but not of fortunes.

This atmosphere provided ample opportunities for men like Georges Danton, a more common man than most elected merchants, and he was incredibly to be a man we would soon know, love dearly and hate passionately.

That afternoon, Gilbert and I were looking to fetch Florian and see if there was any fun to be had. We had devised mischief for the sad men who employed themselves by carrying the wealthy across the gutters, God help us, for we had no conscience. We hoped to trip them using an extended rope hidden under the filth, hopefully and preferably while carrying their corpulent and opulent customers and then do it again down the street.

I had a new jacket and had twisted my long hair in a braid around the head, for I did not want anyone opportunistic
enough to grab it if our victims ran quicker than we did. We were about to leave, sneaking out to avoid sudden random chores, for we knew Colbert, Adam, and father would frequently sit at the rose infested walled garden around that time and Madame Fourier often joined them and they might spy us in the hall, and spoil the fun at a whim. Usually Colbert sat like a fat spider in the middle, his arse claiming the expensive, heavy stone bench, carved gothic splendor, decorated with roaring lions and lilies. They would sit there; drink, eat sweet cake, smoke expensive tobacco generously provided by Colbert, and talk about day’s business and country’s politics, but lately, father would go early, in a huff. I often saw him head out to drink wine in a nearby tavern, sometimes with Claude Antin, but often with people he did not really know. He still made the measly thirty sous, and kept us alive by his humble efforts, even if I saw after the twins were born, he and mother rarely smiled anymore, but I understood it was often so when babies claim the world of the adults. I heard them argue angrily once, and it was about money and the lack of it, and the needs of the twins and me, and I contemplated on stopping it by claiming I have no needs, but he had left, the creaky door slamming with finality.

When we were nearing the dusty ground floor, making our way slowly down the stairs
and then we heard shouting, and froze. Gilbert put a finger on his mouth, his eyes round, and I nodded, determined to avoid capture. We looked at each other in alarm, as we heard footsteps in the corridor, Colbert denying something with a loud, imperious voice, again invoking God to banish the people he was addressing and another loud, officially thin voice demanding to see father. At that, Gilbert grinned at me, enjoying the chaos, anticipating something unusual, but I was morbidly afraid. After awhile, the door opened angrily, then closed even more angrily and the men went away, cursing Colbert and his God alike. We moved down stealthily, and glanced at the doorway, noting the door was swinging dramatically open. A fat soldier and a thin policeman stood outside in the light rain, the latter gesturing madly. Then Colbert was yelling at my father in the garden, and we flitted that way. We sneaked to the garden doorway, and heard them address each other rather loudly. Gilbert wanted to eavesdrop, hissing at me, pulling me next to him, near the doorway and I heard Guillemin speak harshly; he was agitated and stuttering. ‘Do not claim to know, uncle! Speaking to me in such way, as if it was true! I am no criminal! Not in my mind, at least, and that should do you just fine!’

Colbert coughed, angry at the statement. ‘They claim you are, by God, let him have mercy on your sad soul.’ I was getting really worried, but Gilbert hung on to my hand, squeezing it painfully, keeping us there, his eyes twinkling by the implications of the discussion, and I cursed him profusely.

Guillemin barked a laugh, but it was a bitter, nervous bark. ‘Thief and a criminal? Me? The king and the nobles are such creatures. They are, truly!’ He addressed Colbert like he would a child, his voice insipid. ‘Men in our family fought in the fucking seven-year war, well, all save you, uncle. Your brother, our father did, and we lost all our money, just like France did. He left us with nothing, nothing! I have no inheritance. The country offers nothing, but spends all we grind, and the latest American war? More money is gone, even if they claimed a useless fucking victory, a word overused if you ask me! France is spending on nobles, on the church but not on us, the people! And now you say they want me for this… crime? For few sous, they claim? I say I have not done it! Tell them go raid some fucker of a noble’s house, full of wealth sucked from the tits of starving mothers! They commit crimes every day by denying our sodden family food!’

Colbert evidently slammed a tin mug on the bench, making a high note unsuited for the impressive and aggressive gesture. ‘Do not give me sodden stories of France and its lack of money, nor of injustice. I care not, nor does God! You are talking to your wise uncle, a master in a guild and if my brother, your fucking father was a fool, then you are clearly his son. Not you Adam, you have good sense, but Guillemin is his son
of both blood and lack of respect and courtesy, I see that. I know you have done this thing! Forging passes and papers and permits for dark societies and desperate criminals! I am not a blind fool. In my very own print, no less!’ An embarrassed silence reigned for a while, then Colbert continued, painfully. ‘I know you need money, Guillemin. You owe a lot of coin, and it might, just might be that you could sell your wife’s watch to cover your sad little crimes, and stop there for good.’

Gilbert nodded happily, apparently agreeing with Colbert and I scowled, for he was my friend, but I knew he enjoyed such chaos. We had one fabulous treasure, a dead grandfather’s watch from mother’s side, a glittering gold pocket watch made by Isaac Thomson in London. The story goes it was lucky grandfather who acquired it in the seven-year war from the battle of Lutterberg, where he was a harsh dragoon and one of the iron-like cavalrymen who routed the overwhelmed Prussians and the stalwart Brits, and the grateful British officer whose life he in his mercy spared gave him the golden watch as a gift. It was ours. Gilbert snickered as he saw the dour look on my face. ‘Sins of father’s, Jeanette. You have no saying in it.’

‘It’s not his to sell,’ I growled nervously.

‘If he owes money, and your mother loves him and you enough, he will sell it and you can forget the stupid piece of crap,’ he said, saw I still did not agree and pushed me to make his point while snickering. I scrambled desperately for balance and fell heavily on my rear, making noise. We froze, but needed not to worry, when there was a sudden crash in the garden. Father was throwing things and letting the roses suffer a horrid fate as flying chair claimed many like a cannonball mowing down
hapless soldiers. Colbert noted laconically: ‘the spendthrift nobles keep a roof over our heads, mind you. God loves them, and we are blessed, but you are not, it seems.’ Father scoffed. An intense shouting match erupted, and we heard our fathers and great uncle scream in such a manner, that none likely knew what the other was saying, and I doubt they cared. Madame Fourier kept quiet, and I was happy, for I hated her rasping voice. They spoke harshly now, all of them. I finally heard father demand Colbert imperiously that he needed a bigger salary, and get denied one.

Gilbert snorted and even I knew many had been clamoring for more pay lately. That winter, the 1789 had been exceptionally hard, and after the government had told the people that we were effectively bankrupt, prices went up so quickly, it surprised everyone. Bread, the usual four-, six- or eight-pound bread we bought to feed ourselves had skyrocketed in prize. Four pounds had cost some six to eight, now, near twenty sous. I was twelve, I did not understand enough to fear such figures, and not even when mother looked terrified as she tousled my hair after coming home from the bakery and the market.

‘Let us go,’ I begged Gilbert who pulled me up, for I was very uneasy with the loud discussion. ‘Let’s get Florian,’ I poked him, but he shrugged. ‘Mother will be back soon, and I cannot go then,’ I lied. Mother had gone to fetch water from the fountain, and she had taken the reluctant twins with her. Florian’s old mother helped her. In Paris, neighborhoods were all influential, helping and guarding jealously each other. We had no money to buy water from the industrious men and women hauling such wagons around and she took her time at the fountain, gossiping. She would be back later, but I wanted to be away. I did not want to see father like he was now, face red, his eyes glowing with unfathomable anger.

‘Shh!’ he said, ‘Perhaps they will fight, and I shall bet on your father!’ He relished the thought, though even if Adam and Gilbert were closer than they used to be, there was a deep resentment in Gilbert over many past and present
issues, and he was right, I saw, as I peeked over his wide shoulder.

‘I’m betting,’ father was saying, ‘that all the wealthy dog humpers in this country will soon know poverty and be ignoble and sad, and this filthy business
of creating shit in the form of king’s approved books will shrivel up like Adam’s prick!’ Guillemin was on his feet while the other men were sitting, and violence was not far. Yet, after waving a shivering fist at Adam’s nose, father stormed out, his rage spent, pulling on a floppy hat. He did not see us, and Gilbert sighed in disgust and disappointment.

Colbert sighed as well, and Adam was speaking quickly in his squeaky, nervous voice. ‘He is just unhappy, sir, very unhappy. He knows he is no good in the trade, and that is why he is speaking like that. Cursing our beloved king and the fine nobles! That would be like shooting ourselves in the knee, leaving us alive, perhaps, but suffering and poor as beggars. Our businesses…’

‘Will change, they will all change, he is right in that,’ Colbert grumbled unhappily. ‘What happened today, boy, is bad. Over twenty people shot at Réveillon factory? Wages, they want money, because the bread costs so much, and then the fools of the owners say they agree with them, but do not pay. French Guard mowed them down, as they should, by God, but it cannot stay like it is, this terrible situation. He is right in some unintended way, the fool, though I doubt our nobles will stop buying books, ever. But Guillemin. He will not get any more from me. The rat-like police are sniffling around, and suspect him of forgery for some nefarious parties and that cannot be changed by loud, arrogant denial.’