stormed the fortress, he hobbled through the gates with the only thing in the world left to him—his cane.”
“How do you know this?” Curtius asks. “I was there. I didn’t see an old man.”
“He was last to be freed. I met with him this afternoon, and his zeal for life is undiminished. I have already spoken with Camille. By tomorrow, there won’t be citizen in Paris who doesn’t know his story. I can send Citizen Lorges here this evening and you can model him.”
My uncle looks to me. “Can a model be done by Saturday?”
There are already five models to finish. De Flesselles and de Launay will both need to be painted, while Elie, Hulin, and the mayor, Bailly, are all in want of hair. We shall simply use wigs; hair can come later. “I can sculpt him if you finish it while I’m gone.”
Curtius turns back to Robespierre. “Send him here tonight.”
“It would be an honor,” my uncle replies.
Robespierre smiles. “I am going to see where this unfortunate man was kept. Would you like to accompany me to the Bastille?”
But before we can go, Robespierre stands in front of the mirror adjusting his wig, straightening his cravat, cleaning his spectacles, and polishing his shoes. When we finally leave the Salon, everyone recognizes him on the streets. They greet him the way they should be greeting the king, stopping in their tracks, even bowing.
When we reach the Bastille, Robespierre stands back. Even after the battle, it’s an impressive sight. Eight towers block out the summer’s sky, each seventy feet high and five feet wide. Constructed during the Hundred Years’ War, it’s been a prison for more than three centuries. Now, I suppose, it will become a shrine.
The three of us cross the moat into the fortress’s interior, and half a dozen men rush toward us to offer their services. Robespierre nods in the youngest man’s direction. “Can you show us around this bastion of horror?”
“It would be an honor, Citizen Robespierre. My name is Victor.”
Robespierre smiles at the aptness of this. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Victor, who can be only sixteen or seventeen, tells us his brother has been here, imprisoned on a
“You come from a family of patriots, then?”
Victor shrugs. “He wished to better his reputation.”
Robespierre frowns, and Victor explains. “Every writer knows that the way to lasting fame is to be sent to the Bastille. My brother did it; the Abbe Morellet did it.”
“Are you saying they purposely angered the monarchy,” Curtius asks, “just so they could be imprisoned here?”
“Of course! A few months in the Bastille,” Victor says cheerfully, “and that’s all the credibility you’ll ever need. You haven’t read the Abbe Morellet? ‘I saw literary glory illuminate the walls of my prison,’ ” he quotes. “ ‘Once persecuted I would be much better known and my time in the Bastille would make my fortune.’ ”
“For someone who is clearly educated,” Robespierre says, “I’m surprised you’re giving tours of the Bastille.” I can see from the tightness along his jaw that he means this as an insult. But with so many hangers-on walking behind us in the shadow of a famous assemblyman, he doesn’t dare say anything overtly rude.
“What can you do in times like these?” Victor replies. “Even my brother has trouble keeping his family in food. It would have been better if he had stayed here. He ate boiled chicken and roasted beef,” Victor remembers. “With Crassane pears and grapes for dessert. But it was the coffee …” He shakes his head at the memory. “My brother gave me a cup of the Moka coffee—you couldn’t get better at the Palais-Royal.”
“Shall we begin the tour?” Robespierre asks sharply.
Victor stops walking. “We can start with this.” He points to the ground, where a mass of rubble is being cleared by a team of workers. “This was the gatekeeper’s lodge,” he says, “where anyone who wished to visit the prisoners had to stop and check in. Sometimes, the men would be playing cards. Over there, that’s de Launay’s vegetable garden. He planted it so the cooks could make soups.”
Curtius looks at me, and I steady myself on his arm. It was only yesterday that de Launay was alive. His friends, his family, the men who depended on him—could they have imagined it would end this way? That his vegetable garden would be trampled underfoot by men who would paint him as a tyrant?
We enter the fortress, and Robespierre’s dark mood deepens. I remember the shock of coming here for the first time myself. Where were the chains, the torture racks, the wheel? We pass through several prisoners’ rooms. In each chamber is a bed with long green curtains, pillows for resting, and a large black stove. In some of the cells there are bowls on the floor, obviously meant for cats or dogs. “The prisoners were allowed to keep pets?” Robespierre asks.
“Certainly. My brother had his dog, and a friend of his kept two male cats.”
“Where are the
Victor looks to Curtius and me, as if we can explain the reality of the Bastille to him. Instead, we descend into the dungeons, and here, Robespierre finds what he’s looking for. A printing press becomes a rack for torture, metal armor becomes a terrible iron corset. There is no convincing Robespierre otherwise. It’s a trait in him I’ve never seen before, and Victor is stunned.
“Did you want to see the billiards room?” he asks.
Robespierre straightens his cravat. “No. I think we have seen enough horror for one day.”
As we climb the stairs, we reach a section that is covered in moss. My foot slips, and Robespierre grabs my arm. “Thank you.” I gasp, then look down. “My God, I could have killed myself.”
“And we wouldn’t want to lose a beautiful patriot like you.” His eyes lock on mine, and immediately, Curtius is there to say, “That would certainly be a tragedy. And Henri would be exceptionally disappointed.”
Robespierre is surprised. “You are engaged to him?”
“Yes.”
“But not married?”
“No. The needs of the Salon must come first.”
Immediately, I realize I shouldn’t have said this. Robespierre’s eyes grow wide and full of approval. He clasps my hand and when we return to the daylight, he sees that he has an audience and declares, “Man was born free, and he is everywhere in chains. One man thinks himself the master of others but remains more of a slave than they.”
The people begin to clap, and one man says, “Rousseau.”
Robespierre nods. “Every man and woman here today would do well to read the philosopher’s works.”
“Which do you think is more important?” someone asks. “Rousseau’s novel
“That’s like asking to choose between the daffodil and the rose. Both are beautiful creations.”
The people around us begin to laugh. There is nothing Robespierre can say that would disappoint them. “And what do you think should happen to the Bastille?”
“I believe that a monument to tyranny, such as this,” he exclaims, “must be utterly destroyed!”
JULY
16, 1789
—MEMOIRS OF MADAME ELISABETH
AS THE CARRIAGE PULLS UP TO MADAME ELISABETH’S CHATEAU, I look at the brightly painted shutters, the rolling hills, and the sculpted trees in their pale marble urns. The air has a light, wild smell that belongs only to Montreuil and Versailles. The hills don’t care that there is no bread in Paris. The flowers still bloom whether the Bastille stands or falls. I can see now why the queen built her expensive Hameau. There, nothing else exists. The cows will welcome her whether or not she’s beloved in France. The water mill will keep churning even if the people
