Ribbons of Scarlet, Page 2

  I wasn’t sorry for not wasting time in prayer. But I did feel guilty for having abandoned my mending, because we couldn’t afford as many servants as we used to and holes in hosiery wouldn’t mend themselves. Besides, spinster daughters should at least be counted upon for watching the younger children when their governess was away. “I’m sorry, Maman. It’s just that I keep thinking, if only I can capture his pain in a portrait . . .”

  In the weeks since the execution, I’d sketched a hundred men being broken on a hundred wheels and had never been able to expunge the sadness from my heart. Perhaps I never would. Perhaps it was important for my own humanity that I didn’t. And if I could elicit sympathy from even one important person with my art, shouldn’t I try?

  Maman sighed. “I’ll never forgive your uncle for taking you to an execution. If he keeps agitating for these prisoners, he’ll land himself in the Bastille and drag you with him.”

  I shuddered at the mention of the Bastille, the ancient fortress in Paris, with its eight stone towers. No longer needed as a battlement, it had become a jail. At first for suspected traitors, then religious dissidents. More recently for publishers, playwrights, and pornographers. It was a prison controlled by the king’s whim. A royal guard might take you unawares, strike your shoulder with a ceremonial white wand, and then you disappeared.

  The king’s defenders said conditions in the Bastille were much improved, its few occupants ensconced in sumptuous suites enjoying decadent meals. I found that difficult to believe after having read firsthand accounts of prisoners who’d been forgotten in oubliettes, chained up with rotting skeletons. Voltaire called it a palace of revenge. The idea of being imprisoned there made me afraid. Yet not as afraid as seeing three more men tortured to death without having done something to stop it. “I believe we can win powerful people to our side, Maman. Uncle Charles has secured an invitation to dinner from the Marquis de Lafayette next week and I—”

  “Sophie, this obsession with your uncle’s work cannot go on. I, too, once fancied myself an intellectual. Then I became a wife and mother, taking on the duties one must.”

  “Must one?” I asked, hotly. Men devoted themselves to science, the study of the law, and the pursuit of justice. Because I was female, this and everything else that mattered to me was to be abandoned?

  My mother sighed again. “We all have duties. Your father served the king as a page and his country as a soldier, and now serves his family by managing our estate even as it falls into disrepair. In addition to all these responsibilities, he keeps food in your belly and clothes on your back and—”

  “Of course,” I said, painfully reminded of my dependence. My books, my comfort, and all my intellectual pursuits came at the expense of someone else’s labor. As a daughter, I was a burden. Another mouth to feed. That was the reality, and I didn’t wish to give my parents pain. “At least I’ve not cost Papa a dowry.”

  My mother stroked my arm, softly. “But neither have you secured relations that might help us rise in status. Worse, you have rejected so many suitors you begin to make enemies.”

  It didn’t seem fair that the same men who enjoyed my company in the social whirl of Paris should think me a coquette merely because I did not wish to marry. But the reality was that most noblewomen my age were long since wed. The queen had been only fourteen at the time of her nuptials. Lafayette’s wife too. And if I didn’t become a wife, I’d remain a daughter all my life. Or at least until my brother inherited my father’s title, in which case I’d be at his mercy, perhaps acting as governess if I wouldn’t take the veil.

  Still, none of that seemed important. “Maman, you taught me we owe a duty to our fellow man. I took that lesson to heart. Please don’t prevent me from helping Uncle Charles with this case and, after it’s done, I promise to submit myself to your wishes.”

  My mother sighed a third time.

  It wasn’t permission, precisely, but neither was it a refusal. And later that week, Maman contented herself to be vexed merely because I wouldn’t permit the friseur to style my hair under a towering powdered pouf.

  Such atrocious creations—festooned with everything from feathers to fat stuffed songbirds—were thankfully going out of fashion. And I hoped that would not be the only thing to change in France. “It’s only one of Lafayette’s American dinners, Maman. We wouldn’t wish to make any of the Americans feel underdressed. Remember, Monsieur Franklin used to walk about Paris in a beaver hat . . .”

  She sniffed. “Nevertheless, it’s important to make a favorable impression.”

  At her urging I donned my best robe à l’anglaise—its bold red satin stripes recalled the flag of the new American nation across the sea—and rouged my lips, pleased by the result in the mirror. The truth was, I did wish to make a favorable impression. Not only for my family’s sake, but for the Marquis de Lafayette, whose help we needed. And for whom I harbored every secret, fevered emotion a young lady could feel for a married man . . .

  We’d met five years before at a celebratory ball in honor of Lafayette’s return from America, where he’d fought heroically in their cause. I was just eighteen then, and Lafayette himself was a major general of twenty-four, and also the toast of France, fawned over and feted by even the royals. But when we were introduced, I’d had the temerity to ask Lafayette how it was Americans could declare all men are created equal and still keep slaves.

  Maman had been appalled at my cheek, but the dashing major general lingered at my side to explain the dreadful compromises Americans had made to unify, and the ongoing work to abolish the slave trade. Lafayette had lingered with me while impatient men in satin suits cleared their throats, and jealous noblewomen flapped their fans.

  He made me feel as if it were not impertinent at all for a young woman to take an interest in humanity.

  I’d loved him each day since, despite my attempts to reason the feeling away like a philosopher. I agreed with Adam Smith’s contention in The Theory of Moral Sentiments that love was ridiculous. Certainly, it’d been the ruin of many women. Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the feeling. Each time I came into Lafayette’s presence, I found myself as tongue-tied and giddy as a girl half my age.

  Knowing this, I belatedly wondered if I should let Uncle Charles go without me—better to stay home than to make a fool of myself in front of Lafayette, or perhaps even his wife. For though Lafayette’s wife did not seem to mind his alleged dalliances—what self-respecting French wife would stoop to notice a mistress?—I didn’t wish to be one of the many bejeweled women who flung themselves at the man.

  However, the importance of the dinner to the cause of our prisoners renewed my determination to simply compose myself. That I loved Lafayette ought to be of no consequence—there could never be more to it, for I was no coquette.

  So why, then, did my heart kick up its pace that night upon entering his town house on the rue de Bourbon?

  IN THE ENTRYWAY, a portrait of George Washington—the rebel general under whom Lafayette served in America—was given the place of honor amongst the glittering mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and upholstered neoclassical chairs—none of which were threadbare like ours. Unlike my father, of falling fortunes, Lafayette was one of the wealthiest men in France, and we meant to recruit that wealth and influence to our cause.

  The dinner guests were a mixed company. Men and women. American and French. The tall, distinguished new American minister Thomas Jefferson was present, along with his ginger-haired daughter, Patsy, who looked to be about fourteen. Also present was a ward of the Lafayettes’—a colorfully dressed young Iroquois who hailed from the North American forests. But even in such varied company, I spotted someone quite unexpected: Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe.

  She wasn’t precisely a courtesan, but rather a kept woman—a so-called dame entretenue. Once, she’d been the mistress of the Vicomte de Pons, more recently the mistress of the Prince de Conti, and it was suspected she took more lovers besides. Of noble blood, the beauty hosted her own salon, wel
coming gamblers at her card tables. She was rarely shunned in society, but Americans could be shocked by French norms when it came to marital fidelity. So it surprised me to find Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe here, wearing pink from head to toe—frothy rose bows, pale peony petticoat, and a pink gemstone bracelet on her wrist that dazzled as she offered her hand to my uncle for a kiss.

  Then she inclined her head of golden ringlets to me. “Mademoiselle de Grouchy, where have you been hiding yourself? I haven’t seen you since the Opera last year where you charmed every young man in my box, then broke their hearts.” I started to tell her that I’d been crusading on behalf of condemned peasants, but she interrupted. “Allow me to present my daughter, Émilie.”

  Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe pulled from behind her skirts a delicate swan of a girl, already powdered and pinned, her youthful beauty on such display that there could be no question her mother meant either to sell her virtue to the highest bidder or find a wealthy husband before the temptation should arise. “Just thirteen years old, but too pretty to keep under wraps . . .”

  Émilie looked younger than thirteen; perhaps not even twelve. Uncle Charles tried, in vain, to hide a frown at Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe’s transparent ambitions. Meanwhile, little Émilie greeted us with great poise, showing that her mother had taught her well. “Magistrate. Mademoiselle de Grouchy . . .”

  Émilie’s adorable curtsy so charmed me that I replied, “Oh, but you must call me Grouchette, like my friends do.”

  The girl’s nose nearly twitched in amusement.

  Behind us, a man’s voice intoned, “May I also call you Grouchette, mademoiselle, or have we become strangers again after all this time?”

  I turned to see our host, the Marquis de Lafayette. And despite my determination to betray nothing, my breath caught at the sight of him. Tall, with auburn hair tied back, he wore a sword at his hip we all knew was more than ornament. He had, at his own expense and in defiance of the king, wielded that sword to help liberate the American colonies so they might govern themselves. Now twenty-eight, the young officer was at the peak of his physical grace, with long, lean, muscular limbs and an easy confidence.

  Lafayette took my hand and raised it to his lips.

  Which was my complete undoing.

  For the moment his warm lips brushed my skin, I was struck with a bolt of base desire. Perhaps he realized it, because his eyes danced with mirth. “Mademoiselle, I’m delighted to see you. I’ve missed our conversations.”

  I smiled, thinking of a quick, witty reply. The kind I usually engaged in so easily in social situations. But staring into those gray-blue eyes, I quite forgot what I was going to say. A flush swept over me, and my fingers trembled in Lafayette’s hand. Trembled! Worse, when I saw Lafayette’s wife, I snatched my hand back, as involuntary a motion as if it’d been burned upon a stove.

  Startled, Lafayette’s brow furrowed. “Have I offended?”

  Oh, how great a fool must I make of myself?

  “No,” I said, swallowing a groan. “Of course you haven’t. It’s merely that I-I . . .”

  Lafayette leaned closer, expectant. For a moment, it seemed as if every guest listened for my excuse. Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe smirked knowingly at my predicament, and I felt young, exposed, and at a complete loss.

  Just when I thought I might melt of humiliation, I was rescued by a sweet-faced little savior. “Grouchette is too polite to say that I trod upon the back of her dress and nearly knocked her off balance,” Émilie offered, and I cast a grateful look at the young girl for her merciful lie. She beamed in return. “I’m new to satin heels and clumsy in them.”

  Laughing, Lafayette offered his arm to Émilie. “Well then, my dear girl, kick them off and make yourself comfortable in my home!”

  Lafayette ushered us into the dining room where democratic informality reigned, the seating was unassigned, and we were meant to serve ourselves from a stack of plates. This was, Lafayette said, how meals were served in America and not, as someone jested, on tree trunks eaten with bare hands.

  I must have been staring too admiringly, still, because Émilie’s mother whispered in my ear. “I’m afraid Lafayette is a lost cause for you, my dear. To him, you can be nothing more than a charming child.”

  I wanted to lie and say, with a flutter of my lace fan, that it made no difference what Lafayette thought of me, or whether he did at all. That was the game to be played in the parlor and it was a game I usually played quite well. But that night I felt too disgusted with myself to dissemble. “We’re nearly the same age . . .”

  Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe smiled. “It’s not the years but the experience, mademoiselle. You may be—at least until my Émilie fully blooms—the prettiest girl in Paris, but everyone knows you’re still an innocent.”

  I’m not an innocent, I thought, mildly aggrieved. Not after having watched a man die. I was awakened to the rot in our society and not innocent at all. But what Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe meant was that I was a virgin.

  That, as a woman, what remained untouched between my thighs was called virtue and comprised the whole of my worth and maturity. To a lady like Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe, who traded in sexual favors, I must’ve seemed very innocent indeed.

  “No Frenchman is above taking a mistress,” she continued. “Not even Lafayette. But he would never take an unmarried aristocratic girl to his bed. He may speak like a wild American revolutionary, but his heart is filled with old-fashioned chivalry.”

  This was nothing I didn’t already know, and a familiar ache bloomed in my breast. Both at the impossibility of being with the man I wanted and irritation with my infatuation. As if she understood my dilemma well, Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe patted my hand. “If you’re looking for a man to transgress the rules of society, you’d do better with royalty . . .” She tilted her head and laughed. “Or the Condor.”

  I tilted my head too. “The Condor?”

  “It’s a new world bird,” she explained, indicating with a discreet gesture a dour middle-aged nobleman with a beak of a nose. “It’s also my pet name for the Marquis de Condorcet . . .”

  I knew Condorcet only slightly. He was a prodigy, they said, in philosophy, science, economics, and mathematics. But, to the horror of fellow aristocrats, he’d taken on the habits of the working class, accepting positions as permanent secretary of the Académie des Sciences and inspector general at the Mint. Condorcet rather dressed like a member of the lower classes too. No embroidered waistcoat or lace—just a simple cravat, carelessly tied, and a shabby dark blue coat that had not been brushed of its lint, as if he didn’t keep a valet. “He doesn’t look like a libertine . . .”

  Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe laughed. “Libertines rarely do. Never gamble with the man; you’ll lose your petticoats.”

  I glanced again at Condorcet—a man who looked to be even older than my uncle. As he bumbled at the edges of the table, seemingly unable to find a seat he liked, I wondered if she was making sport with me. “Yet he has a reputation as a cold man of science.”

  Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe smiled knowingly “Oh, those of us who know him best say he’s a volcano covered in snow.”

  I might’ve asked what she meant, but I had no interest in Condorcet and didn’t wish to engage in malicious gossip. So I politely excused myself in favor of helping Uncle Charles slip mention of his case into polite discussion, which Lafayette conducted in English for his American guests.

  Thankfully, I spoke English well. But the talk at the table was all of a mercantile nature. France had paid a high price to help liberate the American colonies but both Lafayette and Jefferson confidently predicted that free trade with the new nation would compensate. Meanwhile, the women shared ugly gossip about our queen, whispering about Marie Antoinette’s lovers, diamond necklaces, and foreign ways. Other than myself, the only lady not to indulge in this gossip was Lafayette’s wife, a shy woman who gave the impression that she’d have preferred to be in confessional with her rosary beads.


  After dinner, Lafayette invited the assembly to his grand cabinet and adjoining library to admire his copy of the American Declaration of Independence in a double-paned frame, only half of which was filled with the famous document. Pointing to the empty half, Lafayette said, “I am honored to display this declaration, which spells out the rights of man. But I leave this side of the frame empty . . . do you know why?”

  No one hazarded a guess. The urbane Mr. Jefferson, who had been the primary author of this document, merely smiled enigmatically. But earlier in the evening, I’d heard the freckled Virginian say that he hoped the ideals of the American Revolution might spread liberty to the whole earth. My heart filled with hope that might be true, so I dared to guess, “Are you waiting for a French version to match it?”

  Lafayette broke into a sunny smile. “Oui, oui, Mademoiselle de Grouchy. We must have reform in this country. Until then, we’re all left, like this frame, half empty and wanting . . .”

  I told myself it was his words about reform that stirred me, and not the playfulness he put behind the word wanting. Alas, for me, it was no game. I positively burned with wanting and worried everyone could see it.

  Fortunately, Lafayette turned everyone’s attention to my uncle. “Dupaty, I’ve read your pamphlet, you know. I purchased it for a handful of coins, so the proceeds may go to the good cause. And I’ve guessed you might wish for me to write in support of your prisoners.”

  We’d only hoped Lafayette might bring our cause to the attention of the royals. That he might write in support of it left me breathless. Perhaps our luck was about to change. “Your words carry great weight with the public,” said Uncle Charles, eagerly.

  With altogether too much adoration in my voice, I added, “My dear Marquis, you may save these men’s lives if you write in support of them.”