Monday, August 13, 1792.
I was on the balcony when a coach and four pulled into the courtyard. A footman helped lift an elderly woman down. I could not make out her face under the hood of her cape.
A short time later, Agathe brought me a calling card scented with lavender. It was the Comtesse de Montmorin, whose elegant fêtes at the castle in Fontainebleau had so charmed me, whose dear clumsy husband, Comte Luce de Montmorin, the governor of the castle, I’d found so endearing. Why would she be calling on me? I wondered, untying my morning cap and reaching for a wig.
The Comtesse’s trembling hand clasped mine. “Comte de Montmorin has been arrested—by the Commune!”
“Your husband?”
“They’ve confused him with Monsieur Armand de Montmorin, the Minister of Foreign Affairs!”
Bungling, forgetful, sweet old Comte Luce de Montmorin—how could anyone have mistaken him for a diplomat? “Which prison?” I asked, shaken.
“The Abbaye.”
The Abbaye—it was but a short distance from our home; Eugène, Hortense and I had walked by it the day before. All the windows had been boarded over.
“Nobody knows anything! I am desperate—to whom can I turn?”
Friday, August 17.
Finally, a response from the Tribunal Jury that has been set up to review the arrests of August tenth. I’ve been granted an audience this coming Monday with Citoyen Botot, one of the seven directors. I’ve notes scattered all over the dining-room table, formulating arguments, pleas. My bed is covered with gowns pulled from the cupboard in an effort to select a suitable ensemble. What does one wear when begging a life?
August 18.
This morning, as I entered the kitchen, I thought I saw Agathe hastily shove something under the counter. Later, I went to look. It was a pamphlet, official in its presentation, written by an unwhiskered patriot. It claimed that a plot had been uncovered to assassinate the good citizens of Paris during the night of September second to come. According to the pamphlet, this treacherous scheme is to be carried out by aristocrats and priests with the help of those in the prisons, whom the aristocrats and priests intend to set free.
A fabrication, surely. Yet who would promote such a lie? Who would promote such fear?
Monday, August 20, late afternoon, 3:30 p.m.
Citoyen Botot is a tall, baby-faced older gentleman with a smug, well-fed look. I felt I had met him before.
“I used to sell dental water on Rue des Noyers,” he said. He spoke with a hint of a lisp.
L’eau de Botot—of course. “I consulted you years ago,” I said.
“Did my remedy help?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“My uncle invented it,” he said proudly.
He was sympathetic about Comte Luce de Montmorin’s mistaken identity but informed me there was little he could accomplish alone. He suggested I attend a reception being held at the home of Deputy Paul Barras in four days. Several members of the Tribunal Jury would be there, he said.
“But I have not even been introduced to Deputy Barras,” I said.
“It will be my honour to do so,” Citoyen Botot assured me.
Tuesday, August 21.
Agathe came back from market today flushed with excitement. She’d seen a man’s head cut off—by guillotine.* “The crowd booed!” she said, her pallid complexion pink. “It was over too quickly.”
August 23.
The children came running into the parlour this afternoon much in a fright. They had heard that our troops to the East had fallen to the Austrians.
“Is it Father?” Eugène asked.
I assured him no, his father was safe.
“But what about us!” Hortense cried.
“It’s not the Austrians to fear,” Agathe hissed. “It’s the priests and aristocrats in the prisons who will hold the knife to your heart as you sleep.”
Hortense began to wail. It took some effort to calm her.
“Dismiss Agathe,” Aimée insisted later that night. We were sitting in our little garden sipping claret, watching the moon and the stars come out.
“It’s too dangerous. I dare not.” Many, now, are betrayed to the authorities by their domestics.
Friday, August 24.
Tonight, the reception at Deputy Barras’s. Princess Amalia has offered to loan me one of her beautiful gowns. I have taken a herbal remedy in attempt to calm the fluxations of my stomach. I must go, whatever my condition.
Evening.
Citoyen Botot and I were shown into an elegantly furnished entryway hung with Gobelin tapestries. An older man of about forty approached us, trailing a sword. He walked with the studied grace of a ballet instructor. He embraced Citoyen Botot, caressed his cheek. “And who is this lovely lady you’ve brought for me, François?” With a theatrical flourish, Deputy Barras kissed my hand.
“Ah—the famous Deputy Barras.” I dropped a deep curtsy.
“I hate to think what I might be famous for.” He smiled, removing his gold-rimmed lorgnon from his right eye. A diamond on his middle finger caught the light. He was wearing skin-tight yellow silk breeches, high black riding boots and lace everywhere—very Ancien Régime. Hardly the revolutionary I had expected, from all I had heard.
“Are there so very many possibilities?” I asked. He smelled strongly of spirit of ambergris.
“Innumerable.” By the light of the torches his face was angular, sculpted, with high cheekbones. A sensitive-looking man with sorrowful, puppy-dog eyes. “My dear Botot,” he said, taking my arm, “would you be offended if perhaps I introduced this lady to my guests?”
As we entered the parlour, I paused to admire a painting by Greuze.
“Later I will show you my collection,” Deputy Barras said. “I have an eye for beauty—”
“A weakness, some call it,” Botot whispered.
Deputy Barras smiled, a boyish lopsided grin that was rather endearing. “Speaking of beauty, I see you are wearing one of Citoyenne Deperret’s creations,” he said, noting the intricate lace-and-ribbon design on the shoulder of my gown. “A brilliant designer, but temperamental, I’ve been told.”
“She is brilliant,” I said. I dared not reveal I had borrowed the ensemble.
Throughout the evening Deputy Barras was quite attentive. (I suspect him of being more interested in the show of seduction than seduction itself.) After the third toast to the Republic I was sufficiently emboldened to express my concerns regarding Comte de Montmorin’s arrest. I was encouraged by Deputy Barras’s response—more than the dismissive “We’ll see,” in any case. He made a point of introducing me to four members of the Tribunal Jury who were present. By the deference they paid Deputy Barras, I could see that it would be wise to cultivate his friendship … and no hardship, certainly. He amuses me.
Tuesday, August 28.
Tonight it begins. No carriages, no horses on the streets after nine. A crier on horseback proclaimed that the searches would begin at midnight.
What do we have to hide? Aimée burned a quantity of love letters. She read the more private passages out loud before throwing them into the fire. “I wish I had love letters to burn,” I said. Alexandre’s letters are more like sermons, extolling the virtues of the Republic.
“Leave his out where the authorities can see them,” Aimée said.
Agathe watched us furtively and suddenly I wondered: Is my chambermaid a spy?
August 29.
It was after one in the morning when the search party came, a group of twelve men pounding on the door. The leader was a Citoyen Wimpfen, a vendor of skins I remembered seeing at our section office. They went through our rooms, insisting that we wake the children so that they could search their beds, stabbing the fur coverlets with their daggers.
Aimée offered them old wine in a decanter and cold river pike. “You’ll need this for the hard night’s work ahead, citoyens,” she told them, pouring out generous glasses which flushed them finely. She is good at this. As for myself, I was afraid they would perceive my trembling.
August 29, 1792
Citoyenne Beauharnais:
Regarding the arrest and imprisonment of Citoyen Montmorin, you have been granted a hearing before the jury in one week, on the fourth day of September, at three in the afternoon.
Citoyen Botot
Director, Tribunal Jury
Thursday, August 30.
Thousands more have been arrested—clerics, priests, aristocrats. “We’re next,” Aimée said, strapping on her fencing mask.
August 28, 1792—Valenciennes
Dear Rose,
I have been promoted to maréchal de camp at Strasbourg. I depart tomorrow. I do not know how long it will take to get there as I will be inspecting the garrison towns en route. Do not worry, I have an excellent horse.
Give my love to the children.
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
September 2.
Austrian troops are a two-day march from Paris. Panic has taken the city. In a back room, on a small oak table, Aimée and I assemble weapons: a meat cleaver, Aimée’s fencing sabre, Commander du Braye’s pistol. I touch the cold metal, imagine the worst. Could I? Would I?
Monday, September 3, evening.
Eugène’s birthday, his eleventh. The sounds of the tocsins filled the air, the slow passing of the hours marked by cannon.
I pulled the drapes and forbade the children to look out. Calmly I proceeded, pinning up ribbons in celebration of birth, reciting prayers toward off death. Daggers ever at the ready, I went about the day: children fed, linens mended, bedclothes aired. In little ways one conquers fear.
But now, the children asleep, I wait by the window and watch, listen and wait, the pistol on the table before me. In the dark, fear rules. What would I do if attacked? Would I have the courage to take a life? How are such things done?
September 4.
It was two, perhaps three in the morning, when I heard faint laughter and went to the window. The stars and the moon hovered over the city. Tranquillity, I thought, but then, in the dark I saw flickers of light moving. The city was vibrant with flambeaux.
Two boys appeared in the street below, laughing with drunken pleasure.
I looked closer.
They pulled, they pulled, they staggered and fell, they laughed and pulled again.
What was it they pulled?
It was then that I saw. It was the body of a man they were dragging, his long legs white, naked under a black habit—a priest.
I retched and turned, I gasped for air.
As soon as the sky lightened, I changed into my street clothes, pinned on my cockade. I set out for the Rue de Lille. Frédéric was a member of the National Guard. He would know.
It was Princess Amalia who received me, in spite of the early hour. She, too, had not slept. She led me into the garden where she invited me to sit under a blooming acacia. There, in a setting of peace and beauty, she told me what had transpired in the night. The men and women in the prisons had been slaughtered.
I felt faint. “The Comte de Montmorin? He is in the Abbaye—”
Princess Amalia took my hand.
Mon Dieu. I had had an appointment to go before the jury that very afternoon. And now it was too late.
It was then that the Princess told me that she and Frédéric were planning to escape France.
“But how? The gates, the guards …”
“Frédéric has been able, at great cost, to get passes to Saint-Martin. From there we believe we can get to England.”
England. The enemy. But who was the enemy now? The enemy was everywhere.
“You’ll … you’ll lose everything.” Their estate, the Hôtel de Salm, everything they owned would be taken by the state, everything but the clothes on their backs.
“Everything but our lives.”
“Take us with you.” The words leapt from me without thinking. “Me and the children.” It was a terrible and fearful thing to do, a terrible and fearful thing to ask someone to do, but I was obsessed with one thought only: to get Hortense and Eugène out of France, to safety.
“Oh, Rose, we couldn’t. It’s impossible. You would need a passport.”
“The children, then.” Tears came to my eyes. “You could pretend they were your own.”
She reached for me, alarmed. “Rose?”
I began to tremble.
Princess Amalia looked up at the sky. She took a breath. “Yes.”
Aimée and Lucie were in the foyer when I entered. I looked away.
“Is something amiss?” Aimée put down her market basket.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said. Princess Amalia and Frédéric were leaving at dawn. I’d promised not to tell. In any case, I did not want to. I feared complications, logic—truth. I feared guilt, for thinking only of my own. I hurried up the stairs.
Eugène greeted me with a hug. Hortense ran in with a drawing she had just made. They seemed so very young. A terrible feeling began to rise up in me.
“Maman?” Eugène asked.
I gathered strength. “I have news. I’ve arranged for a holiday for you both, with Frédéric and Princess Amalia.” I had to see this through, and calmly, I knew. Otherwise I would alarm them.
Eugène appeared pleased. I was relieved.
“But I want to go to school,” Hortense said.
“There are no more schools. Remember? The schools have all been closed.”*
“You’re not coming?” Hortense’s voice had that high quavering pitch.
I took her in my arms. “I will join you soon,” I lied. I kissed the top of her head. Don’t cry, I told myself. Don’t cry!
It is midnight now. The light from the lamp burns low. I curl strands of the children’s hair around my fingers, press them into a locket. Eugène’s curls around my finger easily; Hortense’s is fine and straight, it defies confinement.
They are sleeping. Eugène is sprawled across his bed, all long legs and arms. He sleeps soundly, without movement. I do not fear for him.
It is Hortense who still needs me, Hortense who will suffer. She is curled in a tense ball, her face frozen into a frown even in sleep. I thank God that Eugène will be with her. He has heart enough for us all.
September 5.
It was dawn when we set out, Eugène and I taking turns carrying the canvas haversack. I tried to maintain a festive attitude. The coach and four were in the prince and princess’s courtyard, waiting. The driver was not in livery and the family crests had been painted over for fear of drawing attention.
Poor Frédéric was flustered. He couldn’t get his sword to tie properly. Eugène helped him. Then the children and I sat down, out of the way, while the princess supervised the packing. So much had been stuffed into a trunk that the valet was unable to close the lid. Princess Amalia was obliged to take a number of robes out.
At last they were ready. I helped the children into the coach. I kissed them and closed the door. The driver cracked his whip, the horses pulledforward. Hortense waved. Eugène pressed his lips to the glass, to make a funny face.
That was the last.
Quickly I headed home. Nearing the Church of Saint Thomas Aquinas, I heard a child singing, a melancholy soprano much like Hortense’s sweet voice. I stopped.
I would light a candle, I thought, say a prayer … a prayer for safe journey, for my children, but within the dark chapel my intention was thwarted. Labourers were dismantling church ornaments. In a corner a table had been set up and a line of young men had formed: army recruits. At the pews at the front a cleric and several old women were sorting army uniforms.
I stood in the archway, confused.
Two of the labourers moved by me, carrying a heavy statue of the Madonna between them. “Pardon,” one said. They loaded the statue onto a handcart and began to pull it away. The labourer in the blue tunic waved to me, as if in a procession.
I recalled Hortense waving. Goodbye. Goodbye, Maman.
For how long?
For ever?
A feeling of panic came over me. I fell to my knees. The cleric and one of the old women came to my aid. The cleric supported me as best he could to a pew, urging me to rest. “I must go.” I pulled away.
I do not remember making my way to Rue Saint-Dominique. I do not remember climbing the stairs. All I remember is standing at the door to the children’s room. Scattered all over the floor were Eugène’s toy soldiers. One of Hortense’s dolls was slumped in a corner.
“Oui?” Agathe was bent over Eugène’s bed, as if to straighten it. There was a hollow in the pillow, where Eugène’s head had been.
“No!”
Agathe looked at me in confusion.
“Please.” Softly this time; I had alarmed her. “Don’t.” I reached for the door handle to steady myself.
“I’m not to make up the bed?”
“Not just now.” My voice was quavering.
Agathe regarded me with suspicion. “I see.” She backed away.
I closed the door behind us, turned the key, took a breath. I would have them with me still, their familiar disorder, their rumpled bedclothes—their scent, the imprint of their bodies on the pillows … evidence, of their existence.
* Two weeks earlier (August 18, 1792), all religious institutions had been closed by the state. This included most of the schools, which had been run by the Church.