Time's Convert Read online

  “And to yours,” William said, returning the courtesy, “though if we’re to continue taking our daily walks, we’re going to have to come up with something else. Your safety perhaps?”

  The escalating conflict in France was the topic of every dinner conversation.

  “My father worries too much,” Marcus said.

  “Monsieur de Clermont has experienced much war and strife over the course of his life,” William replied. “And Monsieur Marat calls for the death of all aristocrats—even your friend the Marquis de Lafayette. It is no wonder your father is concerned about where all this might lead.”

  Last night, Catharine had drawn Matthew and Marcus out about what they thought of the current situation in France, and how it compared to what they had witnessed in the colonies. Marat had erupted into the conversation, waving his arms and crying out for greater equality and an end to social distinctions. Matthew had excused himself from the table rather than allow himself to be attacked by Jean-Paul or appear rude to his hostess.

  “Do you agree with your father that the revolution in France will be far bloodier and more destructive than what happened in America?” William continued.

  “How could it be?” Marcus said, thinking back to the stained fields at Brandywine and the winter at Valley Forge, to the surgical tents with their amputation saws and the screams of dying men, the hunger and filth, and the horrors of the British prison ships anchored off the coast of New York.

  “Oh, humanity is marvelously creative when it comes to death and suffering,” William said. “We’ll come up with something, my friend. Mark my words.”

  * * *

  —

  MARCUS AND MARAT RETURNED to Paris in May. Matthew was called away from Binfield House on some business for Philippe, and, left without a supervisor, Marat hatched a plan for their escape. It was complicated, and expensive, but between Marcus’s allowance (which had increased due to his good behavior in England), Marat’s cunning (which was limitless), and Catharine’s help as co-conspirator when it came to logistics, the plan succeeded. Marcus tucked himself back into Veronique’s life and her new lodgings at the heart of their increasingly radical neighborhood. Veronique had given up her old apartments in the attic of Monsieur Boulanger’s bakery so that a lumpen fellow named Georges Danton and his political cronies could use it as a base of operations for their new political club, the Cordeliers.

  His father, who had returned to Binfield only to discover empty rooms and a triumphant Mrs. Graham, wrote a furious letter demanding Marcus return to England at once. Marcus ignored it. Ysabeau sent a basket of strawberries and some quail eggs to the Cordeliers along with a request that he call on them in Auteuil. Marcus ignored that, too, though he would have dearly liked to see his grandmother and tell her about Catharine and William. When Veronique complained that the de Clermonts were trying to interfere in their lives, Marcus promised that the only thing he would respond to in future was a direct summons from Philippe. But that never came.

  Marat had now embarked upon a dangerous, clandestine life, one tilted more toward wild flights of fantasy and daemonic outbursts with each passing day. He resumed publishing his newspaper, L’ami du peuple, shortly after he arrived, seemingly working out of a shop on the rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie. During the day, he hid in plain sight, protected by Danton and the other neighborhood bullies while a citywide network of printers, booksellers, and newsagents put their own lives at risk to get the newspaper into the hands of its eager readers. At night, Marat secreted himself in the basements, lofts, and storerooms of his friends, jeopardizing their safety as well as his own.

  Marat’s lack of a fixed address, along with the high anxiety caused by the concerted efforts of the police, National Guard, and National Assembly to capture him, did nothing for his fragile mental and physical state. His skin, which had improved during their time away in England, flared into an agony of itchy, red sores. Marcus prescribed a vinegar wash to quiet the inflammation and prevent infection. It stung like the devil, but it brought Marat relief—so much so that he began to wear a vinegar-soaked cloth around his head. The sharp tang announced his presence long before he appeared, and Veronique dubbed him Le Vinaigrier and aired out her back room whenever Marat slept there so as not to tip off the authorities.

  While Marat hid, Marcus spent late May and June digging out the Champs de Mars and ferrying wheelbarrows of dirt to the side of a vast oval arena so that Paris could properly celebrate the first anniversary of the storming of the Bastille come July. Marat was the only creature of their acquaintance who did not participate in the excavation, pleading a bad back and sore hands due to the many hours he spent crouched over newspaper copy and writing screeds against his political rivals.

  With Marat increasingly convinced that there were vast conspiracies at work to undo the Revolution, and Veronique busy recruiting new members of the Cordeliers Club for Danton, Marcus found himself spending more time with Lafayette. As head of the National Guard and author of France’s new draft constitution, the marquis was up to his neck in plans for the July celebrations. He had ordered troops from all over the country into Paris—one of Marat’s conspiracies argued that Lafayette did so to proclaim himself king—and now had to find housing, food, and amusements for them. At the same time, Lafayette was called upon to greet the visitors who were arriving to join in the festivities. Even the royal family was slated to attend the fete.

  Given the presence of the king, queen, and heir to the throne, as well as hundreds of thousands of intoxicated Parisians, foreign dignitaries, and armed soldiers, Lafayette was understandably concerned about safety. His anxiety mounted when Marat announced his opposition to the planned spectacle, bringing the simmering animosity between Marcus’s two friends to a vitriolic boil.

  “‘Blind citizens whom my cries of pain cannot penetrate—sleep on, on the edge of the abyss,’” Lafayette read aloud from the newspaper. He groaned. “Is Marat trying to cause a riot?”

  “Jean-Paul doesn’t think people are listening to his calls for equality,” Marcus said, trying to explain Marat’s position.

  “He publishes one shrill call to tear society apart after another. We have no choice but to listen.” Lafayette tossed L’ami du peuple on his desk.

  They were seated in Lafayette’s private cabinet, the doors to the small balcony open to the heavy July air. Lafayette’s house was luxurious, but not as large as the Hôtel de Clermont. The marquis had deliberately chosen a residence that was less ostentatious than those of most aristocrats, and decorated it with simple, neoclassical elegance. He and Adrienne, along with their children Anastasie and Georges, had gladly left Versailles to enjoy life as a family on the rue de Bourbon.

  Lafayette’s page entered, a letter in his hand.

  “Monsieur Thomas Paine,” the page announced. “He is waiting for you in the salon.”

  “There is no need for such ceremony,” Lafayette said. “We will greet him here.”

  Marcus leaped to his feet. “The Thomas Paine?”

  “There is only one, alas.” Lafayette straightened his waistcoat and his wig while his servant fetched his American visitor.

  After what seemed like an eternity to Marcus, the servant returned. With him was a man who looked like an English country parson, dressed in severe black from shoulder to foot, his simple white cravat the only thing to provide a dash of contrast apart from his hair, which was gunmetal gray. Paine’s nose was long and bulbous, the end of it angled slightly to the right. The left side of his mouth drooped slightly, which gave him the odd appearance of someone whose features had been fashioned out of soft modeling clay.

  “Ah, Mr. Paine. You found us. Adrienne will be sorry to miss you. She is with her family at the moment.”

  “Monsieur.” Paine bowed.

  “But I have some consolation, as well as some refreshment,” Lafayette said. More servants appeared with tea and melted aw
ay again without uttering a word. “This is my dear Doc, who treated me at Brandywine. He is a great admirer of your writing, and can recite Common Sense chapter and verse. Marcus de Clermont, my friend Thomas Paine.”

  “Sir.” Marcus returned Paine’s polite bow, but was then overcome with emotion. He rushed to him with an extended hand. “Allow me to express my thanks for all you have done to bring liberty to America. Your words were the greatest comfort to me, during the war.”

  “I have done nothing, except cast a light on self-evident truths,” Paine replied, taking Marcus’s hand in his own. Somewhat to Marcus’s surprise, it was a perfectly ordinary handshake. He had long suspected Paine was a Freemason like the rest of them. “Marcus de Clermont, you say? I believe you knew Dr. Franklin.”

  “Marcus and Dr. Franklin spent many happy hours experimenting together,” Lafayette said, ushering Paine to a chair. “His death was a blow to all who believe in freedom, not least to his friends who could sorely use his advice in these troubled times.”

  News of Franklin’s death reached Marcus a few days after he and Marat returned to France. His friend had died of pleurisy, the infection causing an abscess that had made it impossible to breathe. Marcus had always imagined Franklin would live forever, so powerful was his personality.

  “A great loss indeed. And what would you ask Dr. Franklin, if he were here?” Paine inquired gently of Lafayette, taking a cup of tea with thanks.

  Lafayette pondered the question, struggling over his answer, while he fiddled with the teapot and strainer. He preferred coffee, and was not as familiar with the equipment as he should be. Marcus, who had been trained in the proper handling of it by his mother, rescued the marquis from certain disaster and poured his own cup of tea.

  “The marquis is troubled by Monsieur Marat,” Marcus explained as he poured. “Jean-Paul does not like insincerity, and feels that the Bastille celebration is frivolous.”

  “Insincere! How dare he?” Lafayette cried, putting his cup down on its saucer with a clatter. “I can be accused of many failings, Doc, but not my devotion to liberty.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear,” Paine said, blowing on his tea to cool it so that he could take a sip. “I have heard that Marat opposes all attempts at reconciliation between those who support his views, and those who are more moderate.”

  “Marat is a menace,” Lafayette said. “I do not trust him.”

  “Perhaps that is why he does not trust you,” Paine replied.

  Another servant interrupted them, murmuring in his master’s ear.

  “Madame de Clermont has come,” Lafayette announced, face wreathed in smiles. “How wonderful. She will not want tea. Fetch wine for her, at once. Madame will be exhausted, having come all the way from Auteuil.”

  Marcus had not seen his grandmother since he returned from London, and did not know what to expect from the encounter given how many of her invitations he had refused in order to please Veronique. He stood, nervous, as Ysabeau de Clermont sailed into the room, ribbons and ruffles fluttering. Her primrose dress was striped with white and adorned with sprigs of blue forget-me-nots. Her hair was lightly powdered, which made her green eyes and the touch of color in her cheeks more evident. And the tilt of her broad-brimmed hat was decidedly playful—not to mention flattering.

  “Madame!” Lafayette went to Ysabeau, bowing and then kissing her familiarly on each cheek. “You have brought the summer gardens inside with you. What a happy surprise that you came today. Marcus and I are talking with Monsieur Paine about the fete. Will you join us?”

  “Marquis.” Ysabeau beamed at him. “I could not resist calling on you, when Adrienne said you were home alone. I have just come from the Hôtel de Noailles. How the children have grown. Anastasie is more like her mother every day. And Georges—what a rascal he is.”

  “Hello, Grand-mère.” Marcus sounded as awkward as he felt. He tried to cover his nerves by taking her hand and kissing it. He had missed her more than he had realized.

  “Marcus.” Ysabeau’s tone was cool, as if a stiff breeze had blown across the Seine. Happily, no one but Marcus noticed. She turned to Paine. “Mr. Paine. Welcome back. How is your leg? Does it still swell in the mornings?”

  “It is much better, madame,” Paine replied. “And how is our dear comte?”

  “Busy with his affairs, as usual,” Ysabeau said. “As you know, he takes a keen interest in how America fares during its youth.” She slid a glance in Marcus’s direction.

  “You must thank him for sending me a copy of Mr. Burke’s letter to Monsieur Depont,” Paine replied.

  “Philippe felt sure that you would want to know what was being said in the clubs of London.” Ysabeau lowered herself into a waiting chair. It was deep, as chairs needed to be in order to support the birdcages women wore around their waists, not to mention all the silk and satin that was draped over them. Veronique might make do with a straight-backed stool and a cushion, but not Ysabeau.

  “I am crafting my reply to Burke now, madame,” Paine said, his body angled toward her. “He intends to publish the letter, and I wish to have an answer at the ready. There is no reason France cannot become a republic, as America did. May I impose on the comte further, and visit your house to discuss it with him? There is no man whose opinion I value more.”

  Marcus looked from Ysabeau to Paine and back to Ysabeau.

  “Of course, Mr. Paine. The doors of the Hôtel de Clermont are open to all with serious political views.” Ysabeau’s green eyes fixed on Paine as though he were a plump raven she was considering for her next meal. “What are your thoughts on the marquis’s celebration?”

  “It is not mine, madame,” Lafayette protested. “It belongs to the nation.”

  Ysabeau held up her hand, stopping his words. “You are too modest, Gilbert. Without you there would be no nation. We would still be living in the kingdom of France, and the peasants would still be paying their tithes to the church. Isn’t that right, Marcus?”

  Marcus hesitated, then nodded. Veronique and Marat would not agree, but Lafayette had drafted the new constitution, after all.

  “I think the people need to see what they are being asked to believe in—democracy, in this case,” Paine said. “What harm can there be in a parade?”

  “Exactly!” Lafayette said, nodding his head enthusiastically. “It is not a ‘vain spectacle,’ as Monsieur Marat claims. It is a ceremony of harmony, a ritual of fraternity.”

  The clock on Lafayette’s mantel struck four. Marcus leaped to his feet, shocked to see so much time had passed. He was late.

  “I must go,” he said. “I have an appointment with friends.”

  “My carriage can take you,” Lafayette said, ringing a bell that rested by his elbow.

  “My appointment is just down the road, and I’ll be faster on foot.” Marcus was strangely reluctant to leave Paine, and for a moment he considered changing his plans, but his loyalty prevented it. “Good-bye, Mr. Paine.”

  “I hope our paths cross again, Monsieur de Clermont,” Paine said. “At the marquis’s celebration, if not before.”

  “I’d like that, Mr. Paine. Grand-mère.” Marcus bowed to Ysabeau.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” his grandmother said, the corners of her mouth lifted into the shadow of a smile.

  Marcus headed for the door as quickly as he could without alarming Mr. Paine.

  “Marcus?” Ysabeau called after him.

  Marcus turned.

  His grandmother had picked up the red wool hat that Marcus had left on his chair in his haste to get away. It was a visible sign of Marcus’s allegiance to the ideals of the Revolution.

  “Don’t forget your cap,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  CAFÉ PROCOPE WAS PACKED with hot, sweating bodies. There was barely room to stand, and Marcus was like a salmon swimming against the cur
rent as he tried to make his way from the door to the back corner where his friends were waiting.

  “Marcus? Is that you?” Fanny waved her hand in greeting. She was wearing a plain silk gown in revolutionary white. Her unpowdered hair was tumbling around her shoulders in the new style being adopted by all the finest ladies, and she wore a version of Marcus’s distinctive red hat—hers made by one of the most expensive milliners in town.

  “Fanny!” Having successfully avoided his family for almost two months, Marcus could not seem to avoid them today. “You’re far from home.”

  “This is the Quartier Latin, not Africa,” Fanny replied, making rapid progress toward him through a series of deft moves that included treading upon others’ feet, throwing elbows into ribs, and batting her eyes at the men. “The traffic through town is terrible, of course, so I abandoned my carriage on the Pont Neuf and walked the rest of the way. What brings you here?”

  “I live here,” Marcus said, his eyes searching the room for Veronique.

  “With Danton and his band of murderers and thieves?” Fanny shook her head. “Charles said you and Veronique were crammed into a tiny attic with six other creatures. It sounded dreadful. You should move back into my house. It’s far more comfortable.”

  “Veronique and I moved out of the attic.” Marcus gave up searching for Veronique with his eyes and tried using his nose and ears instead. “We’re living in a second-floor apartment now. One closer to the Sorbonne.”

  “Who is your tailor these days?” Fanny wondered, looking him over. “Given the cut of that coat, you look as if you belong in Lafayette’s salon, not the Cordeliers Club. Except for the cap, of course.”

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed at her mention of the marquis. “What are you and Ysabeau up to, Fanny?”

  “Ysabeau?” Fanny shrugged. “You’re spending too much time with Marat. Now you think there are conspirators behind every door. You know perfectly well that we don’t get along.”

  It was true that his grandmother and his aunt were usually shooting conversational barbs into each other at family dinners, but Marcus couldn’t help but feel he was being managed.