Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution Read online

  Annette Vallon

  A Novel of the French Revolution

  James Tipton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Preface

  BOOK I: The Loire Valley, France, 1785–1791

  Remember That

  Nymphs and Satyrs

  Novels

  The Chase

  Champagne and Omelettes

  Shadow World

  A Safe Place

  Presence

  Luxury

  BOOK II: 1791–1792

  The Foreigner

  Cut-Head Jourdan

  The Four Tasks

  Why the Flight to Varennes Failed

  Chimera

  The Serpent

  Plato’s Cave

  All That Binds the Soul

  Different

  Dark Ravine

  Sweet Will

  Nature’s Child

  Tightly Twined

  The Window

  Overbless’d

  Birthday

  Is It Still Yesterday?

  The Sourd

  They’ve Fallen Early This Year

  Revenge Will Prosper

  Stream of Fire

  The Holy Tear

  BOOK III: October–December 1792

  Irrevocable Steps

  Mercy

  A Narrow Ledge

  A Slant of Light

  A Triple Disgrace

  Love Remains

  BOOK IV: 1793–1802

  Words

  La Boucherie

  The Secret Room

  Intriguers

  The Mother of Orléans

  The Titus Cut

  An Omen

  To Regenerate Mankind

  The Key

  The Crypt

  The Sainte Lucette

  The Marquis de La Roques

  The Letter

  Delicious Revenge

  The Blonde Chouanne

  Tonight, My Friend

  The Noyades

  Peace

  Perpetual War

  BOOK V: 1802–1820

  Mutability

  The Hissing Foam

  Let Us Dance

  A Beauteous Evening

  What Remains Behind

  Legends

  Wait

  To Thank Her

  The Healing Well

  L’Envoi

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  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.

  About the Publisher

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321), Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900, Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada

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  HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022

  Epigraph

  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

  Preface

  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.

  BOOK I

  The Loire Valley, France, 1785–1791

  Remember That

  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 fa
ther 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.

  Nymphs and Satyrs

  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.

  “Why wouldn’t dear Madame Dupin allow us this year to drive our carriages to the door? This is not in good taste or style,” Maman said.

  I was teetering on my heels, trying not to look gauche.

  “Man was born to suffer,” the count said.

  “Oh, you can say that,” said Maman, “with your buckled shoes and walking cane. I think it’s most inconsiderate of Madame. As if we ’re peasants. Who’s ever heard of walking to a ball?”

  “It is just the entryway, my dear. We will all deserve our refreshments. And you know what an old eccentric Madame Dupin is.”

  Just then I thought I saw something coming toward us in the woods to my right. I looked on the other side of the drive and saw it there too: a flicker of a shape, darting swiftly between the trees, then hiding behind them. We were almost to the entrance of the château.

  In a sudden flurry of movement, figures leaped from behind the trees and surrounded us. The light was dim now, and I could only make out that they didn’t look quite human. They had horns on their heads, were bare-chested, and, as they pranced around us, appeared to have hooves. The count drew his sword. The creatures were wailing in a demented way and leering at us, especially at me. One tugged at the long sash on my dress. I slapped its hairy hand. Another leaped by and wisped his fingers through my hair.

  “Get away. Get away,” Maman cried, waving the back of her hand at them. The count set himself in the en garde position, his cane balanced in one hand and the sword in the other, ready to lunge against the beasts from another world. Then he laughed and sheathed his sword. “They’re in costume! The fools we are. This is Madame Dupin’s way to usher us to the party.”

  As if in assent, one of the satyr-like creatures motioned us to follow him toward the château. Maman and the count started, and I held back. “Annette, don’t be afraid,” Maman said. “These are Madame Dupin’s satyrs; they won’t hurt you.”

  Then one pranced by my side, nodded his head, bent down, and lifted my silk dress and underskirts well above my knees, and ran off.

  But Maman had turned her back and didn’t notice.

  “She always does something strange for the last fête,” she said to the count.

  The satyrs leaped ahead of us now in the dusk. At the moat they melted into a crowd of waiting guests, bobbing among them, pinching and dancing. Torches hung in sconces set in the château wall. Everyone was staring down into the moat. I heard lovely pastoral music.

  I am small and couldn’t see over women’s ostrich plumes, palm-like feathers, or hats with lace brims.

  Not walking on my feet but balancing on the heels, I must have said “Pardon me” a hundred times, weaving my way through a sea of satin-covered hip pads or long trains falling on the ground.

  Then I saw it too: a small barge with an orchestra on it, coming gently toward us on the current of the river Cher, diverted here into the moat. Silver candlesticks sat on veneer wood tables beside the musicians. As if we were one person, the crowd sighed in appreciation. A gentleman shouted, “Bravo!” and we all applauded. Then we gasped. From a door in t
he wall just above the level of the moat, six young women dove, one after another, into the water and swam around the raft. Their gossamer-thin muslin gowns, once wet, made them appear naked. Their slender arms, dipping in and out of the water, shone in the torchlight; then they floated directly below us, their faces upturned, and every one of them was beautiful.

  They began to sing—something I vaguely recognized from an opera Papa had taken me to long ago—

  The denizens of our sacred groves

  Have prepared for you a glorious festival!

  And already their sweet pipes

  Announce the happy moment

  When you shall reign over them.

  At the end of the last phrase, six satyrs jumped into the water and proceeded to caress or kiss the lovely maidens. “The nymphs and the satyrs!” a gentleman cried. “Bravo, Madame Dupin. You have out-done yourself.”

  We all applauded again, and the crowd swept across the drawbridge to the terrace as the barge and the nymphs floated around the bend in the moat. I was glad for the swimmers that it was such a warm night.

  And four years later, when the Revolution began, I was often glad that, because the villagers loved old Madame Dupin, the château de Chenonceaux was not sacked or burned.

  Novels

  Be careful, reader: my troubles started because I read novels. Rousseau was my favorite author—not necessarily The Social Contract, but his fiction, especially the one about Julie and her true love. So that was my problem.

  Novels had ruined me by the age of sixteen, when Maman invited me into her salon and told me in a hushed and solemn manner, as if she were imparting to me my catechism, that she was arranging for me a mariage de raison with a wealthy sugar merchant from Tours.

  Instead of thanking her and being blushingly excited, as was proper, I merely said that I was honored by her consideration, but I would wait. I was waiting for true love, you see, for my novels had told me that it existed, somewhere. They had also given me a suspicion that maman’s arrangement had more to do with money and position and less to do with love—in fact, she hadn’t even used that word when she outlined for me my future happiness. My novels had also told me that true love rarely had an auspicious ending, but that seemed of little importance to me at the time.