Where the Light Falls(32)
Coming just two days after Christmas—or when Christmas had formerly been celebrated—the ball promised to be a festive occasion attended by the leading citizens of Paris. This being Year One of the new French Republic, all Christian holidays had been suspended, all church services canceled. Cathedrals and churches had been seized for the Republic and rebranded “temples of reason.” This was not to be a party celebrating Christmas but an event to celebrate the triumph of the ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity. And André, momentarily excused for his deceased father’s nobility, knew this to be an invitation that he would be unwise to refuse.
“Aren’t I lucky that my brother couldn’t find a date, and I get to attend as his guest?” Remy looked roguishly handsome in his military uniform and, as he stepped out of the rented fiacre, he nodded at a pair of women who walked arm in arm around the street corner. “We could ask those two gals if they’d like to join?”
André smiled at the two women as he stepped out of the fiacre behind his brother. He wore a similar blue coat with the bronze gorget denoting his rank as an officer. Men in blue coats, the adopted color of the French Revolutionary Army, were now ever present in Paris. “Just try not to get drunk and insult anyone important, Remy. We’re not exactly the citizens these people hope to see.”
“Without a woman, how else should I keep amused?”
André fidgeted with the buttons of his uniform as they crossed La Place de l’Abbe-Basset. “These Jacobins are not necessarily our crowd, and they don’t sound like the most cheerful bunch. We are here to pay our respects, and then we’ll leave.”
“I’ll drink their wine, dance with a few of their wives. Then I’ll leave.”
“If you leave it at acquainting and don’t take it further than that, then we might just be able to leave unnoticed and get on with our lives without these vicious lawyers threatening our heads.”
“If their wives take an interest in my head, then what can I do, big brother?” Remy laughed.
André ignored the last comment, tucking his hands into his pockets. The night air was cold and dry as they approached the monumental building on the far side of the square. After months of marching and sleeping in the woods and bogs of the French countryside, André marveled at the size and beauty of the building, even if he had seen it several times before. Despite the winter chill and brutal shortages of food and fuel, the city retained much of its charm.
The evening’s event was to be held inside the Panthéon, the colossal structure previously known to Parisians as the Abbey of Sainte-Geneviève; the cross at the front and the sculpture of its patron saint had been removed by the sans-culottes and smashed in the street. Perhaps a few glasses of wine would help André forget the fact that the building was now functioning as a mausoleum, the temple where the great Frenchmen of the new nation would be buried. He noted, as they approached, that St. Geneviève’s likeness had been replaced with a Greek-style statue bearing the cumbersome name of The Fatherland Crowning the Heroic and Civic Virtues.
André nodded at two guards standing at the entry, noting, with a twinge of relief, that their military uniforms gained him and Remy swift, unquestioned admission. Inside, the hall was cool and damp. The high-vaulted dome overhead was designed to wash the place in natural sunlight, but this evening the great hall was illuminated by dim, flickering candlelight.
The hall was sparsely decorated as if it were a Noël occasion: holly strung along the walls, polished candelabras running the lengths of long tables spread with pastries, wine, and punch. Throughout the crowd, André spotted several military uniforms, but the vast majority of men in attendance were dressed in civilian clothing. He saw spectacles, clean-shaven faces, and narrow shoulders that had never worn the uniform of the army. He was, after all, at a Jacobin event, surrounded by lawyers and aspiring statesmen of the new Republic.
The women at this soiree, André noted, appeared entirely different from the women who had frequented the feasts he’d witnessed as a youth. Scarlet satin and violet brocade had been replaced by sensible tones of muted beige and navy. Powdered white hair, curled and piled high atop the head, had been replaced with simple brown buns. Heavily rouged cheeks and cheery, sparkling laughter had been exchanged for serious, even stern, expressions and judicious political discussion. The Jacobins had very different taste in women and fashion, it appeared, than had the former dukes and counts of France.
Remy fixed his eyes on the far side of the party. “There he is, the Incorruptible himself.” André followed Remy’s gaze and immediately recognized Maximilien Robespierre, the leader of the Jacobin Club and therefore the de facto host of the evening. “He’s shorter than I thought,” Remy remarked.