Liberty: The Lives and Times of Six Women in Revolutionary France (42 page)
Read Liberty: The Lives and Times of Six Women in Revolutionary France Online
Authors: Lucy Moore
On the day after Robespierre’s fall news of their salvation began filtering through the gaol walls to the prisoners inside, still awaiting their deaths. One man’s wife had permission to write just ‘
Je me porte bien
’–‘I am well’–on the packet of clean laundry she brought him each day. On the day Robespierre went to the guillotine, she wrote, ‘
Ah, que je me porte bien!
’–‘Oh, how well I am!’
At Les Carmes, where Rose de Beauharnais was held, a woman stopped on the streets outside and began gesticulating up at the barred windows. She shook out her dress, and then picked up a stone, and repeated these actions again and again. Finally the prisoners grasped what she was doing–miming ‘
Robe
’ and ‘
pierre
’–dress and stone–and shouted his name down to her. The woman nodded and drew her finger across her throat, and then began dancing and applauding.
Prisoners–including Rose de Beauharnais and Pauline Léon, but not Théroigne de Méricourt, who would shortly be placed in an asylum–were swarming out of Paris’s gaols throughout August. The mad elation they felt at their release was tempered in almost every case by grief for those they had lost.
Thérésia rejoiced when she heard the news of Robespierre’s death, years afterwards calling 9 Thermidor ‘the most beautiful day of my life, since it was in part by my little hand that the guillotine was overturned’. She was released from La Force three days after Tallien had stood up in the Convention, waving the dagger she had given him, and called for Robespierre’s arrest. Tallien later declared that the warrant for her execution was found among Robespierre’s papers; for the second time, he had saved her life.
Beautiful women are everywhere in Paris…Here alone of all places on earth they deserve to hold the reins of government; men make fools of themselves over them, think only of them, and live only for them. A woman need come to Paris for just six months to discover what is her due and what is her empire.
N
APOLÉON
B
ONAPARTE
T
HÉRÉSIA EMERGED
from La Force to find herself a celebrity, hailed as ‘
Notre Dame de Thermidor
’ by an adoring public. ‘No-one was unaware of the part I had played on 9 Thermidor,’ she told one of her children, many years later. ‘The letter which had provoked and accelerated that day was on everybody’s lips, known by heart to everyone.’ ‘She seemed to us at that time humanity incarnate in the most ravishing of forms,’ wrote Charles de Lacretelle, a Thermidorian journalist who believed Thérésia had had more influence for good than he and all his peers combined. Newspapers described her every movement in hungry, rapturous prose. Wherever she went she was followed by grateful crowds and guarded by a band of devoted
muscadins
, dandies, who had seized control of the streets from the sans-culottes.
The
muscadins
, or
jeunesse dorée
, were a group of idle young men with anti-revolutionary sentiments, a mixture of liberated prisoners, deserters from the revolutionary army, clerks and actors. With the tacit support of the new regime, they patrolled the streets, intimidating and insulting people they suspected of Jacobinism. Their ringleader was Stanislas Fréron, an ally of Tallien’s during Thermidor, who had been his friend since the early days of the revolution. Both were Parisian, both had been journalists before entering the Convention in September 1792 and both had been
représentants
accused by Robespierre of corruption. René Levasseur, a defiant Jacobin, called Fréron an ‘evil genius’.
Just as the sans-culottes had been immediately recognizable by their red caps, striped trousers and wooden clogs, so too did the scented
muscadins
wear what amounted to a uniform. Theirs, however, instead of being deliberately populist was exaggeratedly mannered. They favoured oversized grey or brown coats, high, stiff cravats, very tight
breeches and long white stockings wrinkling around the ankles. It was an imaginary version of the clothes English country gentlemen were thought to wear, and a mockery of the republican plainness of dress that had dominated the first years of the revolution. Monocles were fashionable accessories, as were leaded canes or knotty wooden cudgels with which they harassed passers-by. Their pomaded, powdered hairstyles were extraordinarily elaborate: cut
à la victime
, very short at the back, and either falling over the eyes at the front or in
oreilles de chien
–‘dogs’ ears’–long, ear-covering ringlets.
Muscadins
also spoke with a distinctive drawl, dropping their r’s. ‘
C’est ho’ible
,’ they would lisp.
Determinedly frivolous, vain and affected, they prided themselves on their amorous adventures–which was perhaps part of the reason they worshipped Thérésia. Their fingers were heavy with rings, each apparently the souvenir of an
affaire du coeur
. Both men and women, released from the fear of death, now abandoned themselves to a post-apocalyptic pursuit of physical gratification as a way of reminding themselves that they were alive. People’s affections, as Helen Williams put it, ‘burst forth with uncontrollable energy’. Everyone understood the need to test boundaries, to escape limitations, to feel free.
‘Life began again,’ wrote Lacretelle of this heady period, describing strangers embracing on the streets and at the theatres, astonished to find themselves survivors. ‘Men’s hearts and minds, which had a brief while since been so hideously transformed, seemed now to have grown more exalted, to have been purged of all their dross…Faults were forgotten, generosity was the order of the day…All were bent on pleasure.’ Williams agreed: ‘The theatres, the public walks, the streets, resounded with the songs of rejoicing; the people indulged themselves in all the frolic and gaiety which belongs to their character; and all the world knows that joy is nowhere so joyous as at Paris.’ But the inverse of this wild jubilation was a listless sense of cynicism and ennui. People who had lived through the Terror had looked into the depths of hell; nothing could restore their lost innocence.
One of Thérésia’s first free acts, at Tallien’s request, was to visit the children of his friend Rose de Beauharnais and reassure them that their mother would shortly be released. Sweet-natured, pleasure-loving Rose, ten years Thérésia’s senior, was universally adored. When the two women met soon afterwards, they instantly became inseparable friends, united by their desire to drown out their memories of prison and deprivation with a surfeit of hedonism and luxury.
In mid-August Thérésia wrote to a friend in Bordeaux with whom she had entrusted her things asking her to sell her guitars, her mahogany paper-holder, her orange trees, a walnut casket, her horse and her open carriage. She regretted that she was not there to sell some of her dresses, as her time in prison had been so expensive and Fontenay had diminished her fortune by selling houses and land that were not his to dispose of. With the money made, she asked for wine, sugar, coffee, tea, candles and soap to be bought and sent to her, along with some bottles of oil. These were ‘absolutely indispensable’, she said. Paris lacked all basic necessities. Guests invited to dinner parties at this time committed ‘an unheard-of impoliteness’ if they did not bring with them their own bread and candles.
‘Tallien loves you and embraces you with all his heart,’ Thérésia concluded; although they were not living together, their affair continued. ‘Happiness is on every face. Long live the Republic for ever! As one of their victims, I say perish the factions, the intriguers. My writing is messy, but I am moving house and very busy.’
Despite supplying the list of instructions to her friend in Bordeaux, Thérésia returned briefly the following month to collect Théodore and close her affairs there.
Back in Paris, she took a house in the rue Saint-Georges, in the up-and-coming
quartier
of Chaussée d’Antin on the right bank, a quiet, exclusive area. ‘The greatest of all miracles,’ wrote Mercier, ‘is that this superb city still exists.’ Thérésia and Fréron had the words ‘
L’Égalitie, la Fraternité
,
la République ou la Mort
’ erased from the walls near her new house.
On 3 September, the on-going relationship between Thérésia and Tallien excited comment at the Jacobin Club, still open despite the triumph of its political opponents. ‘We demand from Tallien an exact
account of his liaisons,’ said Réné Levasseur, a Jacobin deputy, ‘that he tell us where he stands with an émigré’s wife, who turns out to be the daughter of [one of] the king of Spain’s bankers.’ Less than a week later, an attempt was made to assassinate Tallien as he returned to his mother’s home in the rue de la Perle one night. ‘Villain, I have been waiting for you for a long time!’ shouted his assailant, shooting him in the left shoulder and then running away. The injury was a serious one which went septic; a newspaper reported that ‘one of the purest and most intrepid defenders of the people’ had had to be bled three times.
When Tallien had recovered from his bullet wound, he and Thérésia went to see a play at the Odéon, arriving in her distinctive ox-blood coloured carriage. Having made their entrance through a crush of fans, they walked into the theatre itself to find ‘the entire audience was standing on chairs and benches, where the ovation was prolonged into more applause and cries of love’. For the moment, each shared in the other’s triumph; it was a parity that would not last for long.
People worked hard to forget the horrors of the Terror, but as the ramifications of Robespierre’s fall filtered down through the political classes, Tallien became an object of hatred among displaced Jacobins and disappointed sans-culottes. Many suspected his political integrity, along with that of his fellow-Thermidorians Fréron, Barras and Fouché. Levasseur said that when he heard that Robespierre had been defeated his first emotion was joy, but on finding out who had risen in his place he feared for France. ‘The men who had taken control were, for the most part, men without principles, ambitious mercenaries.’
Even those favourably inclined towards Tallien and his friends, like Germaine de Staël (who had been escorted out of Paris by Tallien in September 1792), questioned their intentions. ‘The new revolution which has just occurred has put the villains-for-the-love-of-profit in place of the villains-for-the-love-of-crime,’ she wrote. In just a few months, the tenor and direction of the revolution had been trans
formed. Individualism was no longer viewed as a crime against the state; rigid, austere virtue was no longer its governing sentiment.
In their efforts to allow some kind of normality to reimpose itself on society, the Thermidorians relaxed the Jacobins’ stringent economic controls and limited the executive arm of the government. Freedom of religion was reinstated and price maximums lifted, but political clubs lost the rights of affiliation, correspondence with each other and petitioning. The result of these confused policies was political compromise, dramatic inflation, corruption and lawlessness. The upheaval was rendered less dangerous than two years earlier because the threat of invasion had diminished–the republican armies, winning victory after victory on the French frontiers, were becoming a formidably victorious force. Nonetheless, it threw a dislocated and traumatized populus into near-anarchy. Visitors arriving in Paris, where the once mighty Commune had been dismantled and the wards’ powers limited, commented on the city’s ‘strange character of uncertainty, of displacement. Nothing seemed to be in its place.’
Throughout the autumn the debate over what should happen to the Jacobin Club raged on the streets of the capital. In November Thérésia, accompanied by Stanislas Fréron and a band of
muscadins
, ceremoniously locked its doors, shutting the Club down for good, and presented the keys to the National Convention. ‘That woman is capable of closing the gates of hell,’ commented the British prime minister, William Pitt.
Despite the new sense of political freedom on the streets, daily life after Thermidor was as hard as ever. The harvest in 1794 was one of the worst recorded in Western Europe. Even in August people had been complaining that they could only buy rough black bread; by December of the coldest winter since 1709, they were starving. It was not unusual to see households keeping a thin goat for its milk, or fattening a family of rabbits. Queues for the coarse, expensive bread might last all day. The government printed more paper money, but merchants refused to sell their goods for debased currency.
‘Subsistence is always the subject of conversations,’ reported a police spy. The Seine froze over, and barges carrying firewood could not get through. People began foraging for fuel in the Bois de Boulogne and
the Bois de Vincennes, decimating the ancient forests there. Exquisite panelling, furniture and picture-frames from abandoned
hôtels
were torn apart and thrown on fires. Hungry wolves prowled the city boundaries. On the streets, desperate for money, people were selling whatever they could lay their hands on: beds, marble statues, books, paintings, used clothes, china. The whole city looked like an enormous junk shop, its streets jostling with gangs of
muscadins
and a ‘universal
brocantage
[buying and selling]’. Most essential items were available only on the black market. ‘Nothing was either bought or sold except in secret,’ remembered Frénilly. ‘Every purchase was a conspiracy.’
In the republican Year III (September 1794–September 1795), mortality rates in Paris reached a record high for the second year running. But in 1794–5 the culprit was dearth, famine and freezing temperatures, rather than Madame Guillotine. Suicide rates soared, especially among young, poor, single women.